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By  the   Same  Author. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COUNTRY  TOWN. 

I  vol.   I2I110.      $I.5O. 

Howells  pronounces  it  "this  remarkable  novel  .  .  .  uncom 
monly  interesting." 

Mark  Twain  finds  the  style  "  simple,  sincere,  direct,  and  at  the 
•ame  time  so  clear  and  so  strong." 

The  Springfield  Republican  finds  in  it "  a  distinct  flavor  of  its 
own  .  .  .  the  freshness  and  strangeness  of  the  prairie  life." 

The  Chicago  Inter-Ocean  finds  it "  the  most  dramatic  of  our 
American  novels  .  .  .  a  drama  of  direct  appeal. " 

"There  runs  through  the  story  a  vein  of  pathos  that  is  abso 
lutely  pitiful,  and  makes  one  think  of  '  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.' .  .  . 
It  is  a  strong,  stern,  matter-of-fact  book.  Some  of  its  pages  stand 
out  from  their  sad  background  of  reality  like  one  of  Salvato 
Rosa's  pictures.  .  .  .  Many  of  the  situations  are  as  dramati 
cal  as  any  of  Bret  Harte's."  —  St.  Joseph  Gazette. 

"Incomparably  the  best  novel  of  the  year,  judged  from  any 
standard.  .  .  .  There  is  a  grace,  a  sympathetic  and  tender 
feeling,  a  delicious  sense  of  humor,  that  make  the  book  remarka 
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***  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers  ;  or  sent  'by  us  post 
paid  to  any  part  of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on 
receipt  of  price. 

JAMES  R.  OSCOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 


THE 


MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS 


BY 


•E.  W.   HOWE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  STORY  OF  A  COUNTRY  TOWN" 


BOSTON 

JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY 
1885 


Copyright,  1883, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


C.  J.  PETERS  AND  SON, 
ELECTROTYPERS. 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.    THE  TOWN  OF  DAKK  NIGHTS 1 

II.    THE  LOCKS 19 

III.  THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW 28 

IV.  DAVY'S  BEND 39 

Y.    A  TROUBLED  FANCY 51 

VI.  PICTURES  IN  THE  FIKE 59 

VII.  THE  LOCKS'  GHOST 76 

VIII.  A  KEMARKABLE  GIRL 85 

IX.  THE  "APKON  AND  PASSWORD" 101 

X.  TUG  WHITTLE'S  BOOTY 114 

XL  THE  WHISPERS  IN  THE  AIR 122 

XII.  EUINED  BY  KINDNESS 139 

XIII.  THE  KEBELLION  OF  THE  BARITONE 152 

XIV.  THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN 168 

XV.    A  SHOT  AT  THE  SHADOW 180 

XVI.    THE  STEP  ON  THE  STAIR 195 

XVII.    THE  PURSUING  SHADOW 212 

XVIII.    THE  EISE  IN  THE  KIVER 225 

XIX.  MR.  WHITTLE  MAKES  A  CONFESSION     ....    238 

XX.    THE  SEARCH  IN  THE  WOODS .•    .    249 

XXI.    LITTLE  BEN .    260 

XXII.    TUG'S  KETURN 272 

XXIII.  THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN                           .    287 


916€ 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  TOWN  OF  DARK  NIGHTS. 

DAVY'S  BEND  —  a  river  town,  a  failing  town, 
and  an  old  town,  on  a  dark  night,  with  a  misty  rain 
falling,  and  the  stars  hiding  from  the  dangerous  streets 
and  walks  of  the  failing  town  down  by  the  sluggish  river 
which  seems  to  be  hurrying  away  from  it,  too,  like  its 
institutions  and  its  people,  and  as  the  light  of  the 
wretched  day  that  has  just  closed  hurried  away  from  it  a 
few  hours  since. 

The  darkness  is  so  intense  that  the  people  who  look 
out  of  their  windows  are  oppressed  from  staring  at 
nothing,  for  the  shadows  are  obliterated,  and  for  all  they 
know  there  may  be  great  caverns  in  the  streets,  filled  with 
water  from  the  rising  river,  and  vagabond  debris  on  their 
front  steps.  It  occurs  to  one  of  them  who  opens  the 
blind  to  his  window  a  moment,  and  looks  out  (and  who 
notices  incidentally  that  the  rays  from  his  lamp  seem 
afraid  to  venture  far  from  the  casement)  that  a  hard  crust 
will  form  somewhere  above  the  town,  up  where  there  is 
light  for  the  living,  and  turn  the  people  of  Davy's  Bend 
into  rocks  as  solid  as  those  thousands  of  feet  below,  which 
thought  affects  him  so  much  that  he  closes  his  blinds  and 
shutters  tighter  than  before,  determined  that  his  rooms 
shall  become  caves. 


2  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

The  rain  comes  down  steadily,  plashing  into  little  pools 
in  the  road  with  untiring  energy,  where  it  joins  other 
vagrant  water,  and  creeps  off  at  last  into  the  gutter,  into 
the  rivulet,  and  into  the  river,  where  it  joins  the  restless 
tide  which  is  always  hurrying  away  from  Davy's  Bend, 
and  bubbles  and  foams  with  joy. 

The  citizen  who  observed  the  intense  blackness  of  the 
night  comes  to  his  window  again,  and  notes  the  steady 
falling  of  the  rain,  and  in  his  reverie  pretends  to  regret 
that  it  is  not  possible  for  the  water  to  come  up  until  his 
house  will  float  away  like  an  ark,  that  he  may  get  rid  of 
living  in  a  place  where  the  nights  are  so  dark  and  wet 
that  he  cannot  sleep  for  thinking  of  them.  When  he 
returns  to  his  chair,  and  attempts  to  read,  the  pattering 
rain  is  so  persistent  on  the  roof  and  at  the  windows  that 
the  possibility  of  a  flood  occurs  to  his  mind,  and  he 
thinks  with  satisfaction  that,  should  it  come  to  pass, 
Davy's  Bend  would  at  last  be  as  well  off  as  Ben's  City ; 
and  this  possibility  is  so  pleasant  that  he  puts  out  his 
lig^t,  the  only  one  showing  in  the  town,  and  goes  to  bed. 

At  the  foot  of  a  long  street,  so  close  to  the  river  that 
its  single  light  casts  a  ghastly  glare  into  the  water,  stands 
the  railroad  station,  where  the  agent  awaits  the  arrival  of 
the  single  train  that  visits  the  place  daily,  —  for  only  a  few 
people  want  to  go  to  Davy's  Bend,  and  not  many  are 
left  to  move  away,  —  so  the  agent  mutters  at  the  rain  and 
the  darkness,  and  growls  at  the  hard  fate  that  keeps  him 
up  so  late;  for,  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  place,  he  is 
the  only  one  who  has  business  to  call  him  out  at  night. 
There  are  no  people  in  Davy's  Bend  who  are  overworked, 
or  whose  business  cares  are  so  great  as  to  make  them 
nervous  or  fretful ;  so  they  sleep  and  yawn  a  great  deal, 
and  have  plenty  of  time  in  which  to  tell  how  dull  their 
own  place  is,  and  how  distressingly  active  is  Ben's  City, 


THE   TOWN   OF  DAEK  NIGHTS.  3 

located  in  the  country  below  them,  and  which  is  admired 
even  by  the  river,  for  it  is  always  going  in  that  direction. 

Fortunately,  on  this  misty  night  the  agent  has  not  long 
to  wait ;  for  just  as  he  curls  himself  up  in  his  chair  to  rest 
comfortably,  certain  that  the  train  will  be  late,  there  is  a 
hoarse  blast  from  a  steam  whistle  up  the  road,  which 
echoes  through  the  woods  and  over  the  hills  with  a  dismal 
roar,  and  by  the  time  he  has  seized  his  lantern,  and 
reached  the  outside,  the  engine  bell  is  ringing  softly  in  the 
yard ;  the  headlight  appears  like  a  great  eye  spying  out 
the  dark  places  around  the  building,  and  before  he  has 
had  time  to  look  about  him,  or  express  his  surprise  that 
the  wheels  are  on  time,  a  few  packages  have  been  un 
loaded,  and  the  train  creeps  out  into  the  darkness,  hurry 
ing  away  from  Davy's  Bend,  like  the  river  and  the 
people.  - 

There  is  but  one  passenger  to-night :  a  man  above  the 
medium  height  and  weight,  dressed  like  a  city  tradesman, 
who  seems  to  own  the  packages  put  off,  for  he  is  standing 
among  them,  and  apparently  wondering  what  disposition 
he  is  to  make  of  them ;  for  the  agent  is  about  to  retire 
into  the  station  with  his  books  under  his  arm.  Evidently 
the  stranger  is  not  good  natured,  for  he  hails  the  official 
impatiently,  and  inquires,  in  a  voice  that  is  a  mixture  of 
indignation  and  impudence,  if  the  hotels  have  ho  repre 
sentatives  about,  and  if  he  is  expected  to  remain  out  in 
the  rain  all  night  to  guard  his  property. 

The  agent  does  not  know  as  to  that,  but  he  does  know 
that  the  stranger  is  welcome  to  leave  his  packages  in  the 
building  until  morning,  which  arrangement  seems  to  be 
the  best  offering,  for  it  is  accepted,  after  both  men  have 
denounced  the  town  until  they  are  satisfied ;  for  no  one 
pretends  to  defend  Davy's  Bend,  so  the  agent  readily 
assents  to  whatever  the  stranger  desires  to  say  that  is 


4         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

discreditable  to  his  native  place,  while  he  is  helping  him 
to  carry  the  trunks  and  bundles  into  the  light. 

When  the  rays  of  the  single  lamp  in  the  station  fall 
upon  the  stranger,  the  agent  at  first  concludes  that  he  is 
middle-aged,  for  a  new  growth  of  whiskers  covers  his 
face  completely ;  but  he  thinks  better  of  this  during  the 
course  of  his  inspection,  and  remarks  to  himself  that  the 
owner  of  the  packages  is  not  as  old  as  he  seemed  at  first 
glance,  but  he  is  a  man  not  satisfied  with  himself,  or  with 
anything  around  him,  —  the  agent  is  sure  of  that ;  and  as 
he  helps  with  the  baggage,  of  which  there  is  a  great  deal, 
he  keeps  thinking  to  himself  that  it  will  stand  him  in 
hand  to  be  more  polite  than  usual,  for  the  stranger  looks 
sullen  enough  to  fight  with  very  little  provocation.  His 
quick,  restless  eyes  were  always  busy,  —  the  agent  feels 
certain  that  he  has  been  measured  and  disposed  of  in  a 
glance,  —  but  the  longer  he  looks  at  the  stranger  the 
more  certain  he  becomes  that  the  packages  he  is  helping 
to  handle  contains  goods  of  importance,  for  their  owner 
is  evidently  a  man  of  importance. 

"There  must  be  gold  in  that,"  the  agent  says,  as  he 
puts  his  end  of  one  of  the  trunks  down,  and  pauses  to 
rest.  "  I  have  been  agent  here  a  good  many  years ;  but  if 
that  is  not  an  excess,  I  never  had  hold  of  one.  Now  for 
the  rest  of  them." 

The  work  is  soon  finished,  and  after  extinguishing  the 
light  the  agent  steps  upon  the  outside,  locks  the  door, 
and  puts  the  key  into  his  pocket. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  says,  as  he  stands  with  the  stranger  out 
side  the  door,  on  a  covered  platform,  where  they  are  pro 
tected  from  the  rain,  "but  I  go  in  this  direction,  while  the 
hotel  lies  in  that,"  pointing  the  way.  "  It 's  a  rough  road, 
and  you  may  have  trouble  in  getting  them  up,  but  I  guess 
you  will  get  there  if  you  go  far  enough,  for  the  hotel 


THE  TOWN   OF  DARK  NIGHTS.  5 

stands  directly  at  the  head  of  the  street.  It 's  a  pity  that 
the  town  does  not  afford  an  omnibus,  or  a  public  carriage, 
but  it  doesn't,  and  that  ends  it.  I  intend  to  go  away 
myself  as  soon  as  I  can,  for  the  company  does  riot  treat 
me  any  too  well,  though  it  is  generally  said  that  another 
man  could  not  be  found  to  do  the  work  as  I  do  it  for  the 
money." 

By  this  time  the  agent  has  his  umbrella  up,  which 
appears  to  be  as  dilapidated  as  the  town,  for  it  comes  up 
with  difficulty,  so  he  says  good  night  cheerily,  and  disap 
pears;  and  the  traveller,  after  shivering  awhile  on  the 
platform,  starts  out  to  follow  the  direction  given  him, 
floundering  in  the  mud  at  every  step. 

There  is  a  row  of  houses  on  either  side,  with  great  gaps 
between  them,  and  he  is  barely  able  to  make  out  the  strip 
of  lighte'r  shade  which  he  judges  is  the  street  he  is  to 
follow,  the  night  is  so  dark ;  but  as  the  hotel  is  said  to  lie 
directly  across  his  path,  he  argues  that  he  is  sure  to  run 
into  it  sooner  or  later,  so  he  blunders  on,  shivering  when 
he  realizes  that  he  is  becoming  wet  to  the  skin.  After 
travelling  in  this  manner  much  longer  than  was  desirable, 
finding  the  sidewalks  so  bad  that  he  takes  to  the  middle 
of  the  street,  and  finally  goes  back  to  the  walk  again 
in  desperation ;  stumbling  over  barrels  and  carts,  and  so 
much  rubbish  that  is  oozy  and  soft  as  to  cause  him  to 
imagine  that  everything  is  turning  into  a  liquid  state  in 
order  that  it  may  leave  the  place  by  way  of  the  gutters, 
the  rivulets,  and  the  river,  he  becomes  aware  that  a  lantern, 
carried  by  one  of  two  men,  whose  legs  are  to  be  .seen  in 
long  shadows,  is  approaching,  and  that  they  are  very 
merry,  for  they  are  making  a  good  deal  of  noise,  and  stop 
frequently  to  accuse  each  other  of  being  jolly  old  boys, 
or  thorough  scoundrels,  or  dreadful  villains,  or  to  lean  up 
against  the  buildings  to  discuss  ribald  questions  which 


6  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

seem  to  amuse  them.  Apparently  they  have  no  destina 
tion,  for  after  one  of  their  bursts  of  merriment  they  are 
as  apt  to  walk  up  the  street  as  down  it ;  and  believing 
them  to  be  the  town  riff-raff  out  for  a  lark,  the  stranger 
tries  to  pass  them  without  attracting  attention  when  he 
comes  up  to  their  vicinity ;  but  the  one  who  carries  the 
lantern  sees  him,  and,  locking  arms  with  his  companion, 
adroitly  heads  the  traveller  off,  and  puts  the  lantern  so 
close  to  his  face  that  he  dodges  back  to  avoid  it. 

"  Tug,"  the  man  says,  in  an  amused  way,  "  a  stranger. 
There  will  be  a  sensation  in  Davy's  Bend  to-morrow ;  it 
has  n't  happened  before  in  a  year." 

Believing  the  men  to  be  good-natured  prowlers  who  can 
give  him  the  information  he  is  seeking,  the  stranger 
patiently  waits  while  they  enjoy  their  joke ;  which  they 
do  in  a  very  odd  fashion,  for  the  man  who  carries  the 
lantern,  and  who,  the  stranger  noticed  when  the  lantern 
was  raised,  was  rather  small,  and  old,  and  thin-faced, 
leans  against  his  companion,  and  laughs  in  an  immoder 
ate  but  meek  fashion.  The  fellow  who  had  been  addressed 
as  Tug  had  said  nothing  at  all,  though  he  snorted  once, 
in  a  queer  way,  which  threw  his  companion  into  greater 
convulsions  of  merriment  than  ever,  and  changing  their 
position  so  that  they  support  themselves  against  a  building, 
one  of  them  continues  to  laugh  gayly,  and  the  other  to 
chuckle  and  snort,  until  they  are  quite  exhausted,  as 
though  a  stranger  in  Davy's  Bend  is  very  funny  indeed. 

"  There  will  be  a  train  going  the  other  way  in  three 
hours, —  for  both  the  trains  creep  through  the  town  at 
night,  as  if  they  were  ashamed  to  be  seen  here  in  day 
light,"  the  little  man  says  to  the  traveller,  recovering  him 
self,  and  with  a  show  of  seriousness.  "You  had  better 
take  it,  and  go  back  ;  really  you  had.  Davy's  Bend  will 
never  suit  you.  It  don't  suit  anybody.  The  last  man  that 


THE   TOWN   OF   DAEK  NIGHTS.  7 

came  here  stood  it  a  week,  when  off  he  went,  and  we  never 
expected  to  see  another  one.  Look  at  these  deserted  houses 
in  every  direction,"  he  continues,  stepping  out  farther  into 
the  middle  of  the  street,  as  if  to  point  around  him,  but 

remembering  that  the  night  is  so  dark  that  nothing  can 

/ 

be  seen,  he  goes  back  to  his  companion,  and  pokes  him  in 
the  ribs,  which  causes  that  worthy  to  snort  once  more  in 
the  odd  way  that  the  stranger  noticed  on  coming  up. 
This  reminds  them  of  their  joke  again ;  so  they  return 
to  the  building,  leaning  against  it  with  their  arms,  their 
heads,  and  their  backs,  laughing  as  they  did  before. 
Meanwhile  the  stranger  stands  out  in  the  rain,  watching 
the  two  odd  men  with  an  air  of  interest ;  but  at  last,  recol 
lecting  his  condition,  he  says,  — 

"  It  happens  that  I  am  looking  for  a  place  that  suits 
nobody,  and  one  that  is  generally  avoided.  If  you  will 
point  out  the  way  to  the  hotel,  I  will  decide  that  question 
for  myself  to-morrow." 

The  little  man  picks  up  the  lantern  immediately  when 
the  hotel  is  mentioned. 

"I  never  thought  of  the  hotel,"  he  exclaims,  on  the 
alert  at  once,  and  starting  up  the  street,  followed  by  his 
snorting  companion,  who  ambled  along  like  the  front  part 
of  a  wagon  pushed  from  behind.  "  It  is  my  business  to 
be  at  the  station  when  the  train  arrives,  to  look  for  passen 
gers,"  the  man  continues  as  he  hurries  on  with  the  light ; 
"  but  it  seemed  like  a  waste  of  time  to  go  down  there,  for 
nobody  ever  conies ;  so  I  thought  I  'd  spend  the  time  with 
Tug." 

The  man  says  this  in  a  tone  of  apology,  as  though  ac 
customed  to  making  explanations  for  lack  of  attention  to 
business ;  and  as  he  leads  the  way  he  is  not  at  all  like  the 
jolly  fellow  who  laughed  so  immoderately,  while  leaning 
against  the  building,  at  his  own  weak  joke ;  but  perhaps  he 


8         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

is  one  thing  when  on  duty,  and  another  when  he  is  out 
airing  himself.  However  this  may  be,  the  stranger  follows, 
taking  long  strides  to  keep  up,  and  occasionally  stumbling 
over  the  person  who  has  been  referred  to  as  Tug,  and 
who  appears  to  be  unjointed  in  his  legs ;  for  when  room 
is  made  for  him  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  walk,  he  is 
sure  suddenly  to  turn  up  on  the  right. 

Thus  they  hurry  along  without  speaking,  until  at  length 
a  dim  light  appears  directly  ahead  of  them,  and  coming 
up  to  this  presently,  the  stranger  finds  that  it  comes  from 
a  building  lying  across  the  course  in  which  they  are 
travelling;  for  the  street  leading  up  from  the  river  and 
the  station  ends  abruptly  in  that  direction  with  the  hotel, 
as  it  ended  in  the  other  with  the  station.  Another  street 
crosses  here  at  right  angles,  and  the  hotel  turns  travellers 
either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left. 

When  the  three  men  enter  the  place,  and  the  light  is 
turned  up,  the  traveller  sees  that  it  had  formerly  been  a 
business  place  ;  that  it  has  been  patched  and  pieced,  and 
does  not  seem  to  answer  the  purpose  for  which  it  is  being 
used  without  a  protest,  for  the  guests  fall  down  two  steps 
when  they  attempt  to  enter  the  dining-room,  and  every 
one  is  compelled  to  go  outside  the  office  to  get  to  the 
stairway  leading  to  the  rooms  above.  In  its  better  days 
the  room  used  as  an  office  had  probably  been  a  provision 
store ;  for  the  whitewash  on  the  walls  does  not  entirely 
cover  price-lists  referring  to  chickens  and  hams  and  oats 
and  flour. 

"  I  am  the  clerk  here,"  the  man  who  had  carried  the 
lantern  says,  as  he  brings  out  a  chair  for  the  stranger, 
but  condemns  it  after  examination  because  both  the  back 
legs  are  gone,  and  it  can  only  be  used  when  leaning 
against  the  wall.  "I  am  sorry  I  was  not  at  the  station 
to  meet  you ;  but  it  is  so  seldom  that  anvone  comes  that 


THE   TOWN   OF   DAKK   NIGHTS.  9 

I  hope  you  will  not  mention  it  to  him,"  pointing  his 
thumb  upward,  evidently  referring  to  the  proprietor  sleep 
ing  above. 

The  arrival  was  thinking  that  queer  little  men  like  the 
one  before  him  were  to  be  found  at  every  country  hotel 
he  had  ever  visited,  acting  as  clerk  during  the  hours  when 
there  was  no  business,  and  as  hostler  and  waiter  during 
the  day,  but  he  iv.ther  liked  the  appearance  of  this  fellow, 
for  he  seemed  more  intelligent  than  the  most  of  them,  so 
he  turned  to  listen  to  what  he  was  saying,  at  the  same 
time  recollecting  that  he  himself  had  suddenly  become 
very  grave. 

"This  is  not  much  of  a  hotel,"  the  clerk  continues,  at 
last  fishing  out  a  chair  that  seems  to  be  strong,  and 
placing  it  in  front  of  the  guest;  "but  it  is  the  best  Davy 
affords.  .  The  hotel,  though,  is  better  than  the  town  ;  you 
will  find  that  out  soon  enough." 

A  small  man,  of  uncertain  age,  the  clerk  turns  out  to  be, 
now  that  the  light  is  upon  him.  lie  may  be  thirty,  or 
forty,  or  ruty ;  for,  judged  in  some  ways,  he  looks  old, 
while  judged  in  other  ways  he  looks  young;  but  it  is  cer 
tain  that  he  is  not  jolly  around  the  hotel  as  he  was  on  the 
street,  for  he  is  very  meek,  and  occasionally  strokes  his 
pale  face,  which  is  beardless,  with  the  exception  of  a  meek 
little  tuft  on  cither  side,  as  though  he  thinks  that  since  he 
has  been  caught  laughing  it  will  go  hard  with  him. 

After  looking  at  his  companion,  with  an  amused  smile, 
for  a  moment,  the  stranger  says  that  he  will  not  mention 
anything,  good  or  bad,  "  to  him,"  whoever  he  may  be,  and, 
while  thinking  to  himself  that  "Davy"  is  a  familiar  way 
of  referring  to  Davy's  Bend,  he  notices  that  the  man  who 
has  already  been  called  Tug,  and  who  has  found  a  chair 
and  is  sitting  bolt  upright  in  it,  is  eyeing  him  closely. 
He  also  remarks  that  Tug  is  hideously  ugly,  and  that 


10         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

he  is  dressed  in  a  suit  of  seedy  black,  which  has  once 
been  respectable,  but  is  now  so  sleek,  from  long  use,  that 
it  glistens  in  the  lamplight.  He  has  a  shock  of  hair,  and 
a  shock  of  beard,  both  of  which  seem  to  have  been 
trimmed  recently  by  a  very  awkward  person  ;  and  the 
stranger  also  notices,  in  the  course  of  his  idle  examination, 
that  one  of  Tug's  eyes,  the  left  one,  is  very  wide  open, 
while  the  other  is  so  nearly  shut  that  generally  the  man 
seeins  to  be  aiming  at  something.  When  Tug  winks 
with  the  eye  that  is  wide  open,  the  one  that  is  nearly 
shut  remains  perfectly  motionless,  but  follows  the  ex 
ample  presently,  and  winks  Independently  and  of  its  own 
accord,  so  that  the  stranger  thinks  of  him  r.s  walking  with 
his  eyes,  taking  a  tremendous  leap  with  his  left,  and  then 
a  limp  with  his  right. 

Tug  continues  his  observations,  in  spite  of  the  cold 
stare  of  the  stranger,  and  makes  several  discoveries,  one 
of  which  is,  that  the  stranger  has  a  rather  good-looking 
face  and  a  large  and  restless  eye.  Tug  imagines  that  he 
can  read  the  man's  character  in  his  eye  as  easily  as  in 
an  open  book,  for  it  has  varying  moods,  and  seems  to  be 
resolute  at  one  moment,  and  gloomy  and  discontented 
at  another.  Although  he  is  looking  straight  at  him,  TUG: 

O  O  O  '  O 

is  certain  that  the  stranger's  thoughts  are  not  always  in 
Davy's  Bend ;  and,  while  thinking  that  the  stranger  has 
important  matters  to  think  of  somewhere,  the  clerk  re 
turns  from  the  kitchen,  carrying  in  his  arms  a  great  piece 
of  cold  beef,  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  half  a  pie  in  a  tin  plate, 
and  a  coffee-pot  and  a  tumbler.  Covering  with  a  news 
paper  a  round  table  that  stands  in  the  room,  he  places  the 
articles  upon  it,  and  asks  the  guest  to  sit  up  and  help 
himself. 

The  stranger  declined,  but  he  noticed  that  Tug,  from 
his  position  against  the  wall,  was  walking  toward  the 


TEGS  TOWN   OF   DARK  NIGHTS.  11 

table  with  his  eyes,  with  first  a  long  step  and  then  a  short 
one,  and  that  at  a  sign  from  his  friend  he  walked  over 
hurriedly  with  his  legs,  and  went  to  work  with  a  raven 
ous  appetite,  putting  pieces  of  meat  and  bread  into  his 
mouth  large  enough  to  strangle  him.  This  convinced  the 
stranger  that  the  lunch  was  really  prepared  for  Tug,  and 
that  there  would  have  been  disappointment  had  he  ac 
cepted  the  clerk's  invitation. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  care  to  know  it,"  the  clerk  said, 
seating  himself,  and  apparently  enjoying  the  manner 
in  which  Tug  was  disposing  of  the  cold  meat,  "but  my 
name  is  Silas  Davy.  I  am  what  is  known  as  a  good 
fellow,  and  my  father  was  a  good  fellow  before  me. 
He  discovered  this  town,  or  located  it,  or  settled  here 
first,  or  something  of  that  kind,  and  once  had  a  great 
deal  of  property ;  but,  being  a  good  fellow,  he  could  n't 
keep  it.  If  you  will  give  me  your  name,  I  will  introduce 
you  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Tug  Whittle." 

"  I  don't  care  to  know  him,"  the  guest  replied,  some 
what  ill-humoredly,  his  restless  eyes  indicating  that  his 
thoughts  had  just  returned  from  a  journey  out  in  the 
world  somewhere,  as  they  finally  settled  on  Tug.  "  I 
don't  like  his  looks." 

Tug  looked  up  at  this  remark,  sighted  awhile  at  the 
guest  with  his  right  eye,  and,  after  swallowing  his  last 
mouthful,  with  an  effort,  pointed  a  finger  at  him,  to  inti 
mate  that  he  was  about  to  speak. 

"  Did  you  see  any  ragged  or  sore-eyed  people  get  off 
the  train  to-night?"  he  inquired,  in  a  deep  bass  voice, 
still  pointing  with  his  bony  finger,  and  aiming  along  it 
with  his  little  eye. 

The  guest  acted  as  though  he  had  a  mind  not  to  reply, 
but  at  last  said  he  was  the  only  passenger  for  Davy's 
Bend. 


12        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"I  was  expecting  more  of  my  wife's  kin,"  Tug  said, 
with  an  angry  snort,  taking  down  his  finger  to  turn  over 
the  meat-bone,  and  using  his  eye  to  look  for  a  place  not 
yet  attacked.  "  Come  to  think  about  it,  though,  they  are 
not  likely  to  arrive  by  rail;  they  will  probably  reach 
town  on  foot,  in  the  morning.  They  are  too  poor  to  ride. 
I  wish  they  were  too  sick  to  walk,  damn  them.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  what  the  word  ornery  means  ?  " 

The  guest  acted  as  though  he  had  a  mind  not  to  reply 
again,  but  finally  shook  his  head,  after  some  hesitation. 

"  Well,"  the  ugly  fellow  said,  "  if  you  stay  here,  — 
which  I  don't  believe  you  will,  for  you  look  too  much 
like  a  good  one  to  remain  here  long,  —  I  '11  introduce  you 
not  only  to  the  word  but  to  the  kin.  After  you  have 
seen  my  wife's  relations,  you'll  fight  when  anybody  calls 
you  ornery." 

Finding  a  likely  spot  on  the  meat-bone  at  the  conclu 
sion  of  this  speech,  Mr.  Whittle  went  on  with  his  eating, 
and  was  silent. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  people  who  do  not  like  Tug's 
looks,"  the  clerk  went  on  to  say,  without  noticing  the 
interruption,  and  looking  admiringly  at  that  individual,  as 
though  he  could  not  understand  why  he  was  not  more 
generally  admired ;  "  so  it  is  not  surprising  that  you  are 
suspicious,  of  him.  I  do  not  say  it  with  reference  to  you, 
for  you  do  not  know  him ;  but  my  opinion  is  that  the 
people  dislike  him  because  of  his  mind.  He  knows  too 
much  to  suit  them,  and  they  hate  him." 

By  this  time  Tug  had  wiped  up  everything  before  him, 
and  after  transferring  the  grease  and  pie  crumbs  from  his 
lips  and  beard  to  his  sleeve,  the  three  men  were  silent,  lis 
tening  to  the  rain  on  the  outside,  and  taking  turns  in  look 
ing  out  of  the  windows  into  the  darkness. 

"  I  suppose  the  shutters  are  rattling  dismally  up  at  The 


THE   TOWN   OF   DABK  NIGHTS.  13 

Locks  to-night,"  Silas  Davy  said.  "  And  the  windows ! 
Lord,  how  the  windows  must  rattle !  I  've  been  told  that 
when  there  isn't  a  breath  of  air  the  shutters  and  win 
dows  at  The  Locks  go  on  at  a  great  rate,  and  they  must 
be  at  it  to-night,  for  I  have  never  known  it  to  be  so 
oppressive  and  still  before." 

"  And  the  light,"  Tug  suggested,  removing  his  aim  from 
the  stranger  a  moment,  and  directing  it  toward  Davy. 

"Yes,  the  light,  of  course,"  Davy  assented.  "They 
say  —  I  don't  know  who  says  it  in  particular,  but  every 
body  says  it  in  general  —  that  on  a  night  like  this  a  light 
appears  in  the  lower  rooms,  where  it  disappears  and  is 
seen  in  the  front  hall;  then  in  the  upper  hall,  and  then  in 
an  upper  room,  where  it  goes  out  finally,  as  if  someone 
had  been  sitting  down-stairs,  in  the  dark,  and  had  struck 
a  light  te  show  him  up  to  bed.  There  is  no  key  to  the 
room  where  the  light  disappears,  and  those  who  visit  the 
house  are  not  permitted  to  enter  it.  I  have  never  seen 
the  light  myself,  but  I  have  been  to  the  house  on  windy, 
noisy  days,  and  it  was  as  silent  on  the  inside  as  a  tomb. 
The  windows  and  shutters  being  noisy  on  quiet  nights,  I 
suppose  they  feel  the  need  of  a  rest  when  the  wind  is 
blowing." 

The  guest  was  paying  a  good  deal  of  attention,  and 
Davy  went  on  talking. 

"  The  place  has  not  been  occupied  in  a  great  many 
years.  The  man  who  built  it,  and  occupied  it,  and  who 
owns  it  now,  made  money  in  Davy's  Bend,  and  went  away 
to  the  city  to  live,  where  he  has  grown  so  rich  that  he  has 
never  sent  for  the  plunder  locked  up  in  the  rooms;  I  sup 
pose  it  is  not  good  enough  for  him  now,  for  I  am  told  that 
he  is  very  proud.  He  has  been  trying  to  sell  the  place 
ever  since,  but  Davy  began  going  down  hill  about  that 
time,  and  the  people  have  been  kicking  it  so  sturdily  ever 


14  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

since  that  nobody  will  take  it.  And  I  don't  blame  them, 
for  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  nest  for  ghosts,  even  if  it  is 
big,  and  respect  able-looking,  and  well  furnished." 

The  guest's  mind  is  evidently  in  Davy's  Bend  now, 
for  he  has  been  paying  close  attention  to  the  clerk  as  he 
talks  in  a  modest  easy  fashion,  even  neglecting  his  first 
ambition  to  stare  Mr.  Whittle  out  of  countenance.  It 
may  U>  that  he  is  in  need  of  an  establishment,  and  is 
looking  out  for  one;  but  certainly  he  takes  considerable 
interest  in  the  place  Silas  Davy  referred  to  as  The  Locks. 

""Who  has  the  renting  of  the  house?"  he  interrupted 
the  clerk  to  inquire. 

The  clerk  got  up  from  his  chair,  and,  walking  over  to 
that  portion  of  the  room  where  the  counter  was  located, 
took  from  a  nail  a  brass  ring  containing  a  number  of  keys 
of  about  the  same  size. 

"  Here  are  the  keys,"  Davy  said,  returning  to  his  chair, 
and  holding  them  up  for  inspection.  "  Number  one  admits 
you  to  the  grounds  through  the  iron  gate ;  number  two 
opens  the  front  door;  number  three,  any  of  the  rooms  lead 
ing  off  from  the  hall  down  stairs ;  number  four,  any  of  the 
rooms  opening  off  from  the  hall  up  stairs;  and  number 
five  and  number  six,  any  of  the  other  rooms.  We  are  the 
agents,  I  believe,  though  am  not  certain ;  but  anyway  we 
keep  the  keys.  The  place  came  to  be  known  as  The  Locks 
because  of  the  number  of  keys  that  were  given  to  those  who 
applied  to  see  it,  and  The  Locks  it  has  been  ever  since."* 

The  stranger  rose  to  his  feet,  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  awhile,  thinking  all  the  time  so  intently  that  it 
occurred  to  Tug  that  he  was  puzzled  to  decide  whether 
his  family  would  consent  to  live  in  a  place  which  had  the 
reputation  of  being  visited  by  a  ghost  carrying  a  light. 

"I  would  like  to  see  this  house,"  he  said,  stopping 
in  his  walk  finally,  and  addressing  Davy.  "I  may  be- 


THE   TOWN   OF   DARK  NIGHTS.  15 

come  a  purchaser.  Will  you  show  me  the  way  to  it, 
now  ?  " 

Up  to  this  time,  since  polishing  the  meat-bone,  Tug 
had  occupied  himself  by  aiming  at  the  stranger,  but  as 
if  the  suggestion  of  a  walk  up  to  The  Locks  was  pleas 
ing  to  him,  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  walked  towards 
the  door.  Silas  Davy  made  no  other,  reply  than  to  put 
the  ring  containing  the  keys  on  his  arm,  and,  putting 
out  the  light,  tha  three  men  stepped  out  into  the  rain 
together. 

The  Locks  appear  to  be  located  towards  the  river ;  not 
down  where  the  railway  train  stops  to  take  people  on  who 
desire  to  get  away  from  Davy's  Bend,  but  higher  up  the 
street  running  at  right  angles  in  front  of  the  hotel,  for 
the  men  walk  in  that  direction,  Davy  and  Tug  ahead 
carrying  the  lantern,  with  their  arms  locked  together,  and 
the  stranger  behind,  who  thinks  the  two  men  are  a  queer 
pair,  for  they  seem  to  enjoy  being  out  in  the  rain,  and 
one  of  them,  the  smaller  one,  laughs  frequently  but 
timidly,  while  the  other  snorts  in  a  manner  which  the 
stranger  recognizes  as  signifying  pleasure. 

Occasionally  they  stop  to  light  the  stranger's  steps  on 
reaching  a  particularly  bad  place,  and  when  he  has  passed 
it  they  go  on  again  ;  up  hill  and  down,  toward  the  river, 
and  when  they  stop  at  last,  it  is  so  dark  that  the' stranger 
does  not  know  that  they  have  reached  a  stone  wall  with 
an  iron  gate  opening  into  an  enclosure,  until  he  comes 
entirely  up  to  them. 

The  lock  turns  heavily,  and  Tug  condescends  to  hold 
the  lantern  while  Silas  applies  both  hands  to  the  key. 
Upon  the  inside  a  long  stone  walk,  leading  toward  the 
house,  then  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  a  porch  is  reached, 
where  they  are  out  of  the  rain. 

Silas  selects  a  key  from  the  collection  he  carries  on  his 


16  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

arm,  and,  once  more  calling  upon  Tug  to  hold  the  light, 
opens  the  door,  and  they  all  enter  the  wide  hall. 

Considering  that  the  house  lias  not  been  occupied 
for  eight  years,  it  is  in  good  condition.  As  they  Avalk 
through  the  different  rooms,  Davy  opening  the  doors 
from  the  bunch  of  keys  on  Ins-arm,  the  stranger  notices 
that  they  are  decently  furnished,  everything  being  plain 
and  substantial;  and  he  hears  for  the  first  time,  while 
standing  in  front  of  the  door  that  is  not  to  be  opened, 
that  an  old  lady  and  her  grand-daughter  live  on  the 
grounds  in  a  detached  building,  who,  when  she  sees  fit, 
airs  and  dusts  the  rooms,  and  that  she  has  lived  there  for 
eight  years,  in  the  pay  of  the  owner.  This  explains  the 
good  condition  of  everything,  and  they  continue  their 
investigation  by  the  dim  light  of  the  lantern. 

There  are  ten  rooms  in  all,  counting  the  two  in  the 
attic,  all  of  them  furnished,  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
parlor;  and  the  stranger  is  so  well  pleased  that  he  in 
quires  the  rent  asked,  and  the  purchase  price.  Silas 
Davy  is  not  certain  as  to  either,  but  promises  that  his 
proprietor  will  give  full  particulars  in  the  morning. 

"  I  will  take  the  house,"  the  stranger  finally  says,  after 
a  lamp  has  been  found  and  lighted,  and  seating  himself  in 
a  chair  as  an  intimation  that  he  is  ready  for  the  two  men 
to  depart.  "  If  I  do  not  buy  it  I  will  rent  it,  and  I  will 
stay  here  to-night." 

Tug  is  willing  to  depart  at  once,  but  Silas  lags  behind, 
and  seems  to  be  ill  at  ease. 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  giving  me  your  name,  that 
I  may  record  it  at  the  house?"  he  respectfully  asks. 

"  Oh,  my  name,"  the  stranger  returns.  "  Sure  enough ; 
I  had  forgotten  that." 

It  seems  to  have  escaped  him,  for  while  Silas  stands 
waiting,  he  studies  for  a  long  time,  contracting  his  brow 


THE  TOWN   OF   DARK  NIGHTS.  17 

until  he  looks  so  fierce  and  savage  that  Tug,  who  has 
been  aiming  at  him  from  the  door,  steps  out  into  the  hall 
to  get  out  of  the  way. 

"  You  may  register  me  as  Allan  Dorris,"  he  said  at 
last,  getting  up  from  his  chair,  and  looking  confused, 
"  from  Nowhere-in-Particular.  It  is  not  important  where 
I  am  from,  so  long  as  I  am  responsible ;  and  I  will  con 
vince  your  proprietor  of  that  in  the  morning.  You  will 
oblige  me  if  you  will  step  over  to  the  quarters  of  the  old 
lady  you  spoke  of,  and  inform  her  that  there  is  a  new 
master  at  The  Locks,  and  that  he  has  taken  possession. 
When  you  return  I  will  show  you  out." 

"  I  neglected  to  mention,"  Silas  says,  after  making  a 
note  of  what  the  stranger  has  said  on  an  envelope,  "  that 
you  can  open  and  close  the  gate  from  this  room,  and  lock 
and  unlock  it.  There  is  also  a  speaking-tube  leading  from 
this  room,  whereby  you  can  converse  with  persons  "on 
the  outside.  I  will  call  you  up  when  I  go  out.  It  is 
located  here,  behind  the  door." 

The  two  men  step  over  to  examine  it,  and  Tug  creeps  in 
to  look  too,  and  after  sighting  at  it  awhile  returns  to  the 
hall. 

The  apparatus  consists  of  an  iron  lever,  with  a  show  of 
chains  running  over  pulleys  and  disappearing  through 
the  floor,  and  a  speaking-tube.  Silas  explains  that 
when  the  lever  is  up  the  gate  is  open,  and  when  it  is 
down  the  gate  is  shut  and  locked.  Both  men  try  it,  and 
conclude  that,  with  a  little  oil",  it  will  work  very  well, 
leaving  it  open  so  that  the  men  may  pass  out. 

There  being  no  further  excuse  for  remaining,  Silas  and 
his  ugly  friend  start  down  the  stairs,  the  stranger  hold 
ing  the  light  at  the  top;  and  after  they  have  passed  out  of 
the  door  and  slammed  it  to  work  the  spring  lock,  and 
tried  it  to  see  that  it  is  locked,  Allan  Dorris  returns  to  the 
room  they  have  just  left. 


18         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

The  grate  in  the  room  is  filled  with  wood,  and  there  is 
kindling  at  the  bottom,  probably  put  there  years  before, 
judging  by  the  dust ;  and  the  stranger  lights  this,  intend 
ing  to  dry  his  wet  clothing.  While  about  it  there  is  a 
whistle  from  the  speaking-tube,  and  going  over  to  it  and 
replying,  a  sepulchral  voice  comes  to  him  from  somewhere 
to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Wedge,  the  housekeeper,  is  de 
lighted  to  hear  that  the  house  is  to  be  occupied  at  last ; 
that  she  will  call  upon  the  new  master  in  the  morning  to 
pay  her  respects,  as  well  as  to  make  her  arrangements 
for  the  future ;  and,  good  night. 

The  stranger  says  good  night  in  return,  pulls  the  lever 
down,  which  closes  and  locks  the  gate,  and  returns  to  the 
fire,  which  is  burning  brightly  by  this  time. 

"  Allan  Dorris,  from  Nowhere-iu-Particular,"  he  mutters 
after  he  is  seated,  and  while  watching  his  steaming 
garments.  There  is  an  amused  look  on  his  face  at  first, 
as  he  repeats  the  name,  but  a  frown  soon  takes  its  place, 
that  grows  blacker  as  he  crouches  down  into  his  chair, 
and  looks  at  the  fire. 

At  length  he  seems  to  tire  of  his  thoughts,  for  he  gets 
up  and  walks  the  floor,  pausing  occasionally  to  look 
curiously  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  or  at  the  carpet,  or 
at  the  furniture.  If  he  returns  to  his  chair,  the  frown 
appears  on  his  face  again,  and  once  more  he  walks  to  get 
rid  of  his  thoughts. 

This  is  continued  so  long  that  the  darkness  finally  gets 
tired  of  looking  in  at  the  windows,  and  hurries  away  at 
the  approach  of  day.  From  time  to  time,  as  the  light 
increases,  he  steps  to  the  window  and  looks  out ;  and 
when  walking  away,  after  a  long  look  at  Davy's  Bend 
through  the  morning  mist,  he  mutters :  — 

"  Allan  Dorris,  if  you  are  from  Nowhere  in-Particular, 
you  are  at  home  again." 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE   LOCKS. 

ROM  the  southern  windows  of  The  Locks,  Allan 
-L  Dorris  looked  with  curious  interest  the  day  after 
his  arrival,  and  the  week  and  the  month  following,  for 
he  remained  there  for  that  length  of  time  without  going 
out,  except  to  walk  along  the  country  roads  ior  exercise, 
where  he  occasionally  met  wagons  containing  men  who 
cursed  the-to\vn  they  were  leaving  for  its  dullness. 

The  dwellings  of  Davy's  Bend  were  built"  upon  hills 
sloping  toward  the  little  valley  where  the  business  houses 
were,  and  which  poured  a  flood  of  water  and  mud  into  the 
long  streets  in  rainy  weather  through  gaping  gullies  of 
yellow  clay.  The  rains  seemed  to  be  so  fierce  and  frequent 
there  that  in  the  course  of  time  they  had  cut  down  the 
streets,  leaving  the  houses  perching  on  hills  above  them, 
which  were  reached  by  flights  of  steps ;  and  this  impi-ession 
was  strengthened  by  the  circumstance  that  it  was  a  wet 
time,  for  it  rained  almost  incessantly. 

The  houses  were  a  good  way  apart,  so  far  as  he 
could  see  from  his  southern  windows;  and  this  circum 
stance  caused  him  to  imagine  that  the  people  were  suspi 
cious  of  each  other,  and  he  noticed  that  while  many  of 
them  had  once  been  of  a  pretending  character,  they  were 
now  generally  neglected;  and  that  there  was  a  quiet  air 
everywhere  that  reminded  him  of  the  country  visited  in 
his  walks. 

19 


20        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

The  houses  themselves  appeared  to  look  at  him  with  a 
cynical  air,  as  the  people  did,  as  if  to  intimate  that  he 
need  not  hope  to  surprise  them  with  his  importance,  or 
with  anything  he  might  do,  for  their  quiet  streets  had 
once  resounded  to  the  tread  of  busy  feet,  and  they  had 
seen  strangers  before,  and  knew  the  ways  of  men.  Some 
of  the  dwellings  perching  on  the  hills,  deserted  now 
except  as  to  bats  and  owls,  resembled  unfortunate  city  men 
in  a  village;  for  there  was  a  conspicuous  air  of  decayed  pro 
priety  about  them,  and  an  attempt  at  respectability  that 
would  have  been  successful  but  for  lack  of  means.  These 
in  particular,  he  thought,  made  faces  at  him,  and  sneered 
as  he  passed  through  their  part  of  the  town  in  his  walks 
to  and  from  the  country  roads. 

Several  times  he  heard  parties  of  men  passing  his  house 
at  night,  talking  loudly  to  make  themselves  heard  above 
the  jolting  of  their  wagons ;  and  these  usually  had  some 
thing  $o  say  about  the  new  owner  of  The  Locks,  from 
which  he  imagined  that  there  was  much  speculation  in 
the  town  concerning  him.  The  house  in  which  he  lived 
was  such  a  gloomy  place,  and  he  was  shut  up  in  it  alone 
for  such  a  length  of  time,  that  he  came  to  listen  to  the 
sound  of  human  voices  with  pleasure,  and  often  went  to 
the  windows  to  watch  for  the  approach  of  wagons,  that 
he  might  hear  the  voices  of  their  occupants ;  for  there  were 
no  solitary  travellers  that  way,  and  while  the  men  may 
have  been  dissatisfied  with  themselves  and  their  surround 
ings,  they  at  least  had  company.  He  longed  to  join  these 
parties,  and  go  Avith  them  to  their  homes,  for  he  thought 
the  companionship  of  rough  men  and  their  families  would 
be  preferable  to  the  stillness  of  his  house;  but  the  wagons 
drove  on,  and  Allan  Dorris  returned  to  his  walk  across 
the  room,  and  back  again. 

From  the  window  most  patronized  by  him  in  his  lonely 


THE  LOCKS.  21 

hours  he  could  see  a  long  stretch  of  the  river,  and  at  a 
point  opposite  the  town  a  steam  ferry  was  moored.  Usu 
ally  smoke  was  to  be  seen  flying  from  its  pipes  during  the 
middle  hours  of  the  day,  as  it  made  a  few  lazy  trips  from 
one  shore  to  the  other ;  but  occasionally  it  was  not  dis 
turbed  at  all,  and  sat  quietly  upon  the  water  like  a  great 
bird  from  morning  until  night. 

From  making  excursions  about  his  own  premises,  as  a 
relief  from  doing  nothing,  he  found  that  the  house  in 
which  he  lived  was  situated  in  a  wooded  tract  of  several 
acres  in  extent,  entirely  surrounded  by  a  high  stone  wall, 
with  two  entrances ;  one  in  front,  by  means  of  a  heavy 
iron  gate,  which  looked  like  a  prison  door,  and  a  smaller 
one  down  by  the  stable.  The  stable,  which  was  built  of 
brick,  had  been  occupied  by  pigeons  without  objection  for 
so  many  .years  that  they  were  now  very  numerous,  and 
protested  in  reels  and  whirls  and  dives  and  dips  in  the  air 
against  the  new  owner  coming  among  them  at  all ;  perhaps 
they  imagined  that  in  time  they  would  be  permitted  to 
occupy  the  house  itself,  and  rear  their  young  in  more 
respectable  quarters.  There  were  a  few  fruit  and  orna 
mental  trees  scattered  among  the  others,  but  they  had 
been  so  long  neglected  as  to  become  almost  as  wild  as  the 
native  oaks  and  hickories.  Occasionally  a  tall  poplar 
shot  its  head  above  the  others,  and  in  his  idleness  Allan 
Dorris  imagined  that  they  were  trying  to  get  away  from 
the  dampness  below,  for  in  the  corners,  and  along  the 
stone  wall,  there  was  such  a  rank  growth  of  vines  and 
weeds  that  he  was  almost  afraid  to  enter  the  dank 
labyrinth  himself.  There  was  a  quaking  asp,  too,  which 
was  always  shivering  at  thought  of  the  danger  that  might 
be  concealed  in  the  undergrowth  at  its  feet,  and  even 
the  stout  hickories  climbed  a  good  way  into  the  air  to 
insure  their  safety. 


22         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Close  to  the  south  wall,  so  close  that  he  could  almost 
touch  it,  stood  a  stone  church,  with  so  many  gables  that 
there  seemed  to  be  one  for  every  pigeon  from  the  stable, 
and  on  certain  days  of  the  week  sumeone  came  there  to 
practise  on  the  organ.  At  times  the  music  was  exquisite, 
and  in  his  rambles  about  the  place  he  always  went  down 
by  the  south  wall  to  listen  for  the  organ,  and  if  he  heard 
it  he  remained  there  until  the  music  ceased.  The  music 
pleased  him  so  much,  and  was  such  a  comfort  in  his  lone 
liness,  that  he  did  not  care  to  see  the  player,  having  in  his 
mind  a  spectacled  and  disagreeable  person  whose  appear 
ance  would  rob  the  spell  of  its  charm ;  therefore  he  kept 
out  of  his  way,  though,  on  the  days  when  the  music  could 
be  expected,  Dorris  was  always  in  his  place,  impatiently 
waiting  for  it  to  commence.  There  was  something  in 
the  playing  with  which  he  seemed  to  have  been  ac 
quainted  all  his  life ;  it  may  have  been  only  the  ex 
pression  of  weariness  and  sad  melancholy  that  belongs 
to  all  these  instruments,  but,  however  it  was,  he  regarded 
the  organ  as  an  old  acquaintance,  and  took  much  plea 
sure  in  its  company  even  when  it  was  silent,  for  it  occu 
pied  a  great  stone  house  like  himself,  and  had  nothing 
to  do. 

Between  the  stable  and  the  house  was  the  residence  of 
Mrs.  Wedge,  the  housekeeper  —  a  building  that  had  ori 
ginally  been  a  detached  kitchen,  but  the  cunning  of 
woman  had  transformed  the  two  rooms  into  a  pleasant 
and  cozy  place.  This  looked  home-like  and  attractive,  as 
there  were  vines  over  it  and  flowers  about  the  door;  and 
here  Allan  Dorris  found  himself  lingering  from  day  to 
day,  for  he  seemed  to  crave  companionship,  though  he 
was  ashamed  to  own  it  and  go  out  and  seek  it.  Instead 
of  dining  in  the  stone  house,  he  usually  sat  down  at  3Ir*. 
Wedge's  table,  which  he  supplied  with  a  lavish  hand,  and 


THE  LOCKS.  23 

lingered  about  until  he  thought  it  necessary  to  go  away, 
when  he  tried  to  amuse  himself  in  the  yard  by  various 
exercises,  which  were  probably  recollections  of  his  younger 
days ;  but  he  failed  at  it,  and  soon  came  back  to  ask  the 
motherly  old  housekeeper  odd  questions,  and  laugh  good- 
naturedly  at  her  odd  answers. 

A  highly  respectable  old  lady  was  Mrs.  Wedge,  in  her 
black  cloth  dress  and  snowy  white  cap,  and  no  one  was 
more  generally  respected  in  Davy's  Bend.  During  his 
life  Mr.  Wedge  had  been  a  strolling  agent,  never  stopping 
in  a  town  more  than  a  week ;  and  thus  she  lived  and 
travelled  about,  always  hoping  for  a  quiet  home,  until  her 
good-natured  but  shiftless  husband  took  to  his  bed  one 
day,  and  never  got  up  again,  leaving  as  her  inheritance  his 
blessing  and  a  wild  son  of  thirteen,  who  knew  all  about 
the  ways  ef  the  world,  but  nothing  of  industry.  Hear 
ing  of  Davy's  Bend  soon  after  as  a  growing  place, — 
which  was  a  long  time  ago,  for  Davy's  Bend  was  not  a 
growing  place  now,  —  she  apprenticed  her  son  to  a  farmer, 
and  entered  the  service  of  the  owner  of  The  Locks,  under 
whose  roof  she  had  since  lived. 

The  wild  son  did  not  take  kindly  to  farming,  and  ran 
awav ;  and  his  mother  did  not  hear  of  him  again  until 

v      *  O 

four  years  after  she  was  living  alone  in  The  Locks,  when 
a  little  girl  five  years  old  arrived,  accompanied  by  a  letter, 
stating  that  the  son  had  lived  a  wanderer  like  his  father, 
and  that  the  child's  mother  being  dead,  he  hoped  Mrs. 
Wedge  would  take  care  of  his  daughter  Betty  until  the 
father  made  his  fortune.  But  the  father  never  made  his 
fortune ;  anyway,  he  never  called  for  the  child,  and  Mrs. 
Wedge  had  found  in  her  grand-daughter  a  companion  and 
a  comfort,  passing  her  days  in  peace  and  quiet.  There 
fore  when  the  new  owner  offered  her  a  home  there,  and 
wages  besides,  in  return  for  her  agreement  to  undertake 


24  THE   MYSTERY  OF  THE   LOCKS. 

his  small  services,  she  accepted — having  become  attached 
to  the  place  —  and  lived  on  as  before. 

The  house  itself,  which  was  built  of  stone,  and  almost 
square,  contained  ten  rooms ;  four  of  about  the  same  size 
below,  and  four  exactly  like  them  above,  and  two  in  the 
attic  or  half  story  in  the  roof.  There  were  wide  halls  up 
stairs  and  down,  and  out  of  the  room  that  Allan  Dorris 
had  selected  for  his  own  use,  and  which  was  on  the  .corner 
looking  one  way  toward  the  gate  in  front,  and  the  other 
toward  the  town,  began  a  covered  stairway  leading  to 
the  attic. 

In  this  room  he  sat  day  after  day,  and  slept  night  after 
night,  until  he  almost  became  afraid  of  the  quiet  that  he 
believed  he  coveted  when  he  came  to  Davy's  Bend ;  and 
at  times  he  looked  longingly  toward  the  speaking-tube 
behind  the  door,  hoping  it  would  whistle  an  announce 
ment  that  a  visitor  had  arrived ;  for  his  habit  of  sitting 
quietly  looking  at  nothing,  until  his  thoughts  became  so 
disagreeable  that  he  took  long  walks  about  the  place  to 
rid  himself  of  them,  was  growing  upon  him. 

But  no  visitors  came  to  vary  the  monotony,  except  the 
agent  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival,  who  received  a 
quarter's  rent  in  advance,  and  afterwards  named  a  price 
so  low  that  Allan  Dorris  bought  the  place  outright, 
receiving  credit  for  the  rent  already  paid. 

Had  the  dark  nights  that  looked  in  at  Allan  Dorris's 
windows,  and  for  which  Davy's  Bend  seemed  to  be 
famous,  been  able  to  remark  it,  there  would  have  been 
much  mysterious  gossip  through  the  town  concerning  his 
strange  actions.  Whenever  he  sat  down,  his  eyes  wrere  at 
once  fixed  on  nothing,  and  he  lost  himself  in  thought ;  he 
was  oblivious  to  everything,  and  the  longer  he  thought, 
the  fiercer  his  looks  became,  until  finally  he  sprang  from 
his  chair  and  walked  violently  about,  as  if  his  body  was 


THE  LOCKS.  25 

trying  to  escape  from  his  head,  which  contained  the  objec 
tionable  thoughts.  At  times  he  would  laugh  hoarsely, 
and  declare  that  he  was  better  off  at  The  Locks  than  he 
had  ever  been  before,  and  that  Davy's  Bend  was  the  best 
place  in  which  he  had  ever  lived;  but  these  declarations 
did  not  afford  him  peace,  for  he  was  soon  as  gloomy  and 
thoughtful  as  ever.  That  he  was  ill  at  ease,  the  dark 
nights  could  havd  easily  seen  had  they  been  blessed  with 
eyes;  for  the  dread  of  loneliness  grew  upon  him,  and  fre 
quently  he  sent  for  Mrs.  Wedge,  confessing  to  her  that 
he  was  lonely,  and  that  she  would  oblige  him  by  talking, 
no  matter  what  it  was  about. 

Mrs.  Wedge  would  politely  comply,  and  in  a  dignified 
way  relate  how,  on  her  visits  to  the  stores  to  purchase 
supplies,  great  curiosity  was  everywhere  expressed  with  ref 
erence  to  th,e  new  master  of  The  Locks,  —  what  business 
he  would  engage  in;  where  he  came  from;  and,  most  of 
all,  there  was  a  universal  opinion  that  he  had  bought  The 
Locks  for  almost  nothing. 

"A  great  many  say  they  would  have  taken  the  place  at 
the  price  themselves,"  Mrs.  Wedge  would  continue, 
smoothing  down  the  folds  of  her  apron,  a  habit  of  which 
she  never  tired,  "  but  this  is  not  necessarily  true.  The 
people  here  never  want  to  buy  anything  until  it  is  out  of 
the  market ;  which  gives  them  excuse  for  grumbling,  of 
which  they  have  great  need,  for  they  have  little  else  to  do. 
I  believe  the  price  at  which  you  took  the  house  was  lower 
than  it  was  ever  offered  before,  —  but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there." 

Then  Mrs.  Wedge  would  tell  of  the  queer  old  town,  in  a 
quaint  way,  and  of  the  people,  which  amused  her  employer ; 
and  noticing  that,  in  his  easy  chair,  he  seemed  to  enjoy 
her  company,  she  would  smooth  out  her  apron  once 
more,  and  continue  :  — 


26  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"  They  all  agree,"  —  there  would  be  an  amused  smile  on 
Mrs. Wedge's  face  as  she  said  it,  —  "  they  all  agree  that  you 
do  not  amount  to  much,  else  you  would  have  gone  to  Ben's 
City,  instead  of  coming  here.  This  is  always  said  of  every 
stranger,  for  Davy's  Bend  is  so  dull  that  its  people  have 
forgotten  their  patriotism.  I  have  not  heard  a  good  word 
for  the  town  in  ten  years,  but  it  is  always  being  denounced, 
and  cursed,  and  ridiculed.  I  think  we  despise  each  other 
because  we  do  not  move  to  Ben's  City,  and  we  live  very 
much  as  I  imagine  the  prisoners  in  a  jail  do,  — in  cursing 
our  home,  in  lounging,  in  idle  talk,  and  in  expecting  that 
each  one  of  us  will  finally  be  fortunate,  while  the  condi 
tion  of  the  others  will  grow  worse.  We  are  a  strange 
community." 

Dorris  expressed  surprise  at  the  size  of  the  church  near 
The  Locks,  and  wondered  at  the  deserted  houses  which  he 
had  seen  in  his  walks,  whereupon  Mrs.  Wedge  explained 
that  Davy's  Bend  was  once  a  prosperous  city,  containing 
five  thousand  busy  people,  but  it  had  had  bad  luck  since ; 
very  bad  luck,  for  less  than  a  fifth  of  that  number  now 
remained,  and  even  they  are  trying  to  get  away.  What  is 
the  cause  of  this  decrease  in  population  ?  The  growth  of 
Ben's  City,  thirty  miles  down  the  river.  The  belief 
which  existed  at  one  time  that  a  great  town  would  be 
built  at  Davy's  Bend  turned  out  to  be  a  mistake.  Ben's 
City  seemed  to  be  the  place ;  so  the  people  had  been 
going  there  for  a  number  of  years,  leaving  Davy's  Bend 
to  get  along  as  best  it  could. 

This,  and  much  more,  from  Mrs.  Wedge,  until  at  a  late 
hour  she  notices  that  Dorris  is  asleep  in  his  chair,  proba 
bly  having  got  rid  of  his  thoughts ;  so  she  takes  up  the 
lamp  to  retire  with  it.  Holding  it  up  so  that  the  shade 
throws  the  light  full  upon  his  face,  she  remarks  to  herself 
that  she  is  certain  he  is  a  good,  an  honorable,  and  a  safe 


THE  LOCKS.  27 

man,  whoever  he  is,  for  she  prides  herself  on  knowing 
something  about  men,  and  arranging  the  room  for  the 
night,  although  it  does  not  need  it,  she  goes  quietly  down 
the  stairs,  out  at  a  door  in  a  lower  room,  and  into  her 
own  apartment. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

A  LLAN  DOKRIS  sleeps  on,  unconscious  of  the  dark- 
-£^-  ness  peering  in  at  him  from  the  outside,  which  is 
also  running  riot  in  the  town,  and  particularly  down  by 
the  river,  where  the  crazy  houses  with  their  boarded  win 
dows  seem  to  collect  shadows  during*the  day  for  use  at 
night,  robbing  the  sunlight  for  the  purpose ;  for  there  is 
little  brightness  and  warmth  at  Davy's  Bend,  but  much  of 
dampness  and  hazy  atmosphere. 

There  is  light  and  life  down  this  way ;  a  light  in  the 
window  of  the  wretched  house  occupied  by  Mr.  Tug 
Whittle,  and  all  the  neighboring  buildings  are  alive  with 
rats  and  vermin.  Tug  occupies  his  house  for  the  same 
reason  that  the  rats  occupy  theirs,  for  in  this  quarter  of 
the  town  the  tenants  pay  no  rent.  Some  of  the  buildings 
wore  once  busy  warehouses  and  stores,  but  they  have 
been  turned  over  to  the  rats  these  ten  years,  and  Tug 
occupies  a  little  frame  one  from  choice,  as  he  argues  that  if 
it  falls  down  from  old  age,  there  will  not  be  so  many  ruins 
in  Avhich  to  bury  the  tenants.  Besides,  the  big  buildings 
shelter  him  from  the  cold  north  winds  in  winter,  and  do 
not  interfere  with  the  southern  breezes  from  the  river  in 
summer;  therefore  the  faded  sign  of  "T.  Whittle,  Law 
Office,"  swings  in  front  of  the  little  fi'ame  building  bnvk 
from  the  street,  instead  of  from  the  more  imposing  ones 
by  its  side. 

28 


THE   FACE   AT   THE   WINDOW.  29 

Everybody  knows  Tug  Whittle,  and  admits  that  he  is 
perfectly  harmless  and  hopelessly  lazy  —  always  except 
ing  Silas  Davy,  who  believes  that  his  friend  is  very  ener 
getic  and  dangerous ;  therefore  when  Silas  is  unable  to 
hold  a  position  because  he  is  a  good  fellow,  or  because  he 
spends  so  much  time  at  night  with  Tug  that  he  is  unfit  for 
work  during  the  day,  he  is  also  an  inhabitant  of  the  little 
law  office,  along  with  the  lawyer  and  the  rats,  although  it 
is  not  much  of  a  law  office,  for  it  contains  nothing  but  a 
stove,  half  cooking  and  half  heating,  a  bed  that  looks  as 
though  it  came  from  the  fourth  story  of  a  cheap  hotel,  a 
few  broken  chairs,  a  box  that  is  the  lawyer's  table,  and 
a  few  other  articles  common  to  a  kitchen,  all  of  them 
second-hand,  and  very  poor. 

There  is  nothing  about  the  place  to  suggest  a  law  office 
save  the  sign  in  front,  and  a  single  leather-covered  book 
on  the  inside ;  a  ponderous  volume  to  which  Mr.  Whittle 
applies  for  everything,  including  kindling.  Silas  has  seen 
him  look  through  it  to  decide  questions  in  science,  theol 
ogy,  law,  and  history,  and  tear  leaves  out  of  it  with  which 
to  start  his  fire ;  and  while  a  cunning  man  would  have 
guessed  that  Mr.  Whittle  made  up  his  authority,  instead 
of  finding  it  in  the  book,  Silas  Davy,  who  is  not  cunning, 
believes  that  it  is  a  repository  of  secrets  of  every  kind,  al 
though  it  is  really  a  treatise  on  a  law  which  has  been 
repealed  many  years.  When  Silas  so  far  forgets  himself 
as  to  mildly  question  something  his  companion  has  said, 
Mr.  Whittle  refers  to  the  book,  and  triumphantly  proves 
his  position,  no  difference  what  it  may  be  ;  whereupon  the 
little  man  feels  much  humiliated.  Mr.  Whittle  has  even 
been  known  to  refer  to  the  book  to  convict  his  enemies  in 
Davy's  Bend  of  various  offences ;  and  Silas  has  so  much 
respect  for  the  volume  that  he  has  no  trouble  in  imagining 
that  the  den  in  which  Tug  lives  is  not  only  a  law  office, 


80  THE  MYSTERY   OF   THE   LOCKS. 

but  a  repository  of  profane,  political,  and  sacred  history,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  sciences  and  the  town  scandal. 

Like  the  rats  again,  Tug  lies  by  during  the  day,  and 
goes  abroad  at  night,  for  he  is  seldom  seen  on  the  streets 
until  the  sun  goes  down,  and  he  is  not  entirely  himself  un 
til  after  midnight.  Occasionally,  on  dark,  bad  days  he 
is  to  be  seen  walking  about,  but  not  often,  and  it  is  known 
that  he  sleeps  most  of  the  day  on  the  rough  bed  in  his  rough 
office.  If  he  is  disturbed  by  idle  boys,  which  is  sometimes 
the  case,  he  gets  up  long  enough  to  drive  them  away,  and 
returns  to  his  bed  until  it  is  dark,  when  he  yawns  and 
stretches  himself,  and  waits  patiently  for  Silas  Davy,  who 
is  due  about  that  hour  with  his  supper. 

But  for  Silas  Davy,  like  the  rats  again,  Tug  would  be 
compelled  to  steal  for  a  living ;  for  he  never  works,  but 
Silas  believes  in  him,  and  admires  him,  and  whenever  he 
is  employed,  he  saves  half  of  what  he  gets  for  his  friend, 
who  eats  it,  and  is  not  grateful.  Indeed,  he  often  looks 
at  Silas  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  is  not  providing  for  him 
as  well  as  he  should,  whereupon  Silas  looks  downcast  and 
miserable ;  but,  all  in  all,  they  get  along  very  well  together. 

Up  to  the  present  rainy  and  wet  year  of  our  Lord 
eighteen  hundred  and  no  difference  what,  Tug  has  never 
admired  anyone,  so  far  as  is  known ;  but  he  admires  Allan 
Dorris,  the  new  owner  of  The  Locks,  and  frequently  says 
to  Silas  that  "  T/iere  is  a  man,"  at  the  same  time  aimin<r 

'  O 

his  big  eye  in  the  direction  Dorris  is  supposed  to  be. 
There  is  every  reason  why  Tug  should  admire  Silas  Davy, 
who  is  very  good  to  him,  but  he  does  not,  except  in  a  way, 
and  which  is  a  very  poor  way;  and  there  is  no  reason  why 
he  should  admire  Allan  Dorris,  who  is  suspicious  of  him, 
but  he  does,  and  on  this  night,  Silas  having  arrived  early 
with  his  supper,  he  is  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  by 
discussing  both  at  the  same  time. 


THE  FACE   AT   THE   WINDOW.  31 

"  By  the  horns  of  a  tough  bull,"  Tug  says,  which  is  his 
way  of  swearing,  "  but  there  is  a  man.  Muscle,  brain, 
clothes,  independence,  money;  everything.  What,  no 
butter  to-night  ?  " 

He  says  this  impatiently  after  running  through  the 
package  his  companion  has  brought,  and  not  finding 
what  he  was  looking  for;  and  Silas  humbly  apologizes, 
saying  he  could  not  possibly  get  it  at  the  hotel. 

"  "Well,  no  matter,"  Tug  continued  in  an  injured  way, 
using  a  pickle  and  two  slices  of  bread  as  a  sandwich.  "  It 
will  come  ai-ound  all  right  some  day.  When  I  come  into 
my  rights,  I  '11  have  butter  to  spare.  But  this  impudent 
Dorris ;  I  like  him.  He  has  the  form  of  an  Apollo  and 
the  muscle  of  a  giant.  If  he  should  hit  you,  you  would 
fall  so  fast  that  your  rings  would  fly  off  your  fingers. 
He 's  the  kind  of  a  man  I  'd  be  if  I  had  my  rights." 

While  Tug  is  munching  away  at  his  supper,  Davy  re 
members  how  unjust  the  people  are  with  reference  to  these 
same  rights ;  how  they  say  he  has  none,  and  never  will 
have,  except  the  right  to  die  as  soon  as  possible.  The 
people  say  that  Tug's  wife,  the  milliner,  drove  him  from 
her  house  because  he  would  not  work,  and  because  he  was 
ugly  in  disposition,  as  well  as  in  face  and  person ;  that  it 
was  soon  found  out  that  he  was  not  so  dangerous,  after 
all,  when  men  were  talking  to  him,  so  they  have  regarded 
him  as  a  harmless  but  eccentric  loafer  ever  since.  Some 
of  the  people  believe  that  Tug  does  not  appear  on  the 
streets  during  the  day  for  fear  of  meeting  his  wife,  while 
others  contend  that  he  goes  out  only  at  night  because  he 
is  up-  to  mischief;  but  neither  class  care  to  question  him 
about  the  matter,  for  he  has  a  mean  tongue  in  his  head,  and 
knows  how  to  defend  himself,  even  though  he  is  compelled 
to  invent  facts  for  the  purpose. 

But  Davy  knows  that  Tug  can  tell  a  very  different 


32        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

story,  and  tell  it  well,  and  he  is  sure  that  there  will  be  a 
genuine  sensation  when  he  finally  tells  it,  and  comes  into 
his  own. 

"  What  a  voice  he  has,  and  what  a  eye,"  Mr.  Whittle 
goes  on  to  say,  throwing  a  leg  over  a  chair  to  be  comfort 
able.  "  I  usually  despise  a  decent  man  because  I  am  not 
one  myself,  but  this  fellow  —  damn  him,  I  like  him." 

Silas  Davy  was  the  sort  of  a  man  who  is  never  surprised 
at  anything.  Had  he  been  told  on  a  dark  night  that  it  was 
raining  blood  on  the  outside,  he  would  not  have  disputed 
it,  or  investigated  it,  believing  that  such  storms  were 
common,  though  they  had  escaped  his  observation  ;  there 
fore  he  was  not  surprised  that  Tug  admired  Allan  Dorris, 
although  he  knew  he  had  no  reason  to. 

"  I  have  known  people  to  come  here  and  denounce  us 
for  a  lack  of  culture  who  knew  nothing  about  propriety 
except  to  eat  pie  with  a  fork,"  Mr.  Whittle  said  again ; 
"  but  this  Dorris,  —  I  '11  bet  he  practises  the  proprieties 
instead  of  preaching  them.  He  don't  remind  me  of  the 
people  who  come  here  and  call  us  ignorant  cattle  because 
.we  do  not  buy  their  daub  paintings  at  extravagant  prices, 
or  take  lessons  from  them  ;  he  don't  look  like  the  cheap 
fellows  who  declare  that  we  lack  cultivation  because  we 
refuse  to  patronize  their  fiddle  and  pianow  concerts,  there 
fore  look  out  for  Dorris.  He 's  a  man,  sure  enough ;  I  '11 
stake  every  dollar  I  'm  worth  and  my  reputation  on  it." 

Although  he  had  neglected  to  bring  butter,  the  supper 
Silas  had  brought  was  good  enough  to  put  Mr.  Whittle  in 
a  cheerful  humor,  and  he  continued,  — 

"The  people  around  here  put  me  in  mind  of  the  freaks 
in  a  xlime  museum ;  but  Dorris's  clothes  fit  him,  and  he 
looks  well.  There  are  plenty  of  men  so  common  that  they 
look  shabby  in  broadcloth,  and  who  are  so  miserably 
shaped  that  no  tailor  can  fit  their  bones ;  but  this  fellow  — 


THE   FACE   AT   THE   WINDOW.  33 

he  would  look  well  with  a  blanket  thrown  over  his 
shoulders,  and  running  wild.  Hereafter,  when  I  refer  to< 
my  rights,  understand  that  I  would  be  a  Dorris  sort  of  a 
fellow  were  justice  done  me.  Did  you  bring  me  a 
drink?" 

Silas  produced  a  flask  from  his  pocket,  and  while  Tug 
was  mixing  the  contents  with  sugar,  by  means  of  stirring 
them  together  with  a  spoon  in  a  tumbler,  making  a  cheer 
ful,  tinkling  sound  the  while,  he  delivered  a  stirring 
temperance  lecture  to  his  companion.  He  did  this  so 
often  that  Silas  regarded  himself  as  a  great  drunkard, 
although  that  was  not  one  of  his  failings  ;  but  he  felt  grate 
ful  to  Tug,  wrho  drank  a  great  deal,  for  his  good  advice. 
He  was  so  mortified  to  think  of  his  bad  habits  and 
Tug's  worthiness,  that  he  turned  his  face  away,  unable 
to  reply. 

"  Dorris  reminds  me  of  a  young  widow  two  years  after 
the  funeral,"  Mr.  Whittle  said,  after  drinking  the  dram  he 
had  prepared.  "  Handsome,  clean,  well-dressed,  and 
attractive.  I  have  an  ambition  to  be  a  young  widow  my 
self,  but  owing  to  the  circumstance  that  I  have  been  de 
frauded  of  my  rights,  at  present  I  look  like  a  married 
woman  with  six  children  who  does  not  get  along  with  her 
husband.  In  short,  I  am  slouchy,  and  ill-tempered,  and 
generally  unattractive,  with  an  old  wrapper  on,  'and  my 
hair  down.  Ben,  come  here." 

The  light  in  the  room  was  so  dim  that  it  had  not  yet  re 
vealed  to  the  eyes  of  Silas  the  form  of  a  boy  seated  on  a 
low  box  at  the  side  of  the  room  farthest  from  him,  who 
now  came  over  into  the  rays  of  the  lamp,  and  looked 
timidly  at  Tug. 

Silas  knew  the  boy  very  well ;  little  Ben  Whittle,  the 
son  of  his  friend,  who  worked  on  a  farm  three  miles  in  the 
country,  and  who  came  to  town  occasionally  after  dark 


34        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

to  see  Silas,  who  treated  him  well,  but  always  returning  in 
time  to  be  called  in  the  morning;  for  his  employer  was  a 
rough  man,  and  very  savage  to  his  horses  and  cattle  and 
boys.  Ben  was  dressed  in  a  coat  no  longer  than  a  jacket, 
buttoned  tightly  around  his  body,  and  his  pants  were  so 
short  that  they  did  not  nearly  touch  the  tops  of  his  rough 
shoes.  lie  wore  on  his  head  a  crazy  old  hat,  through  the 
torn  top  of  which  his  uncombed  hair  protruded,  and  al 
together  he  was  such  a  distressing  sight  that  Davy  was 
always  pitying  him,  although  he  wras  never  able  to  do 
him  much  good,  except  to  treat  him  kindly  when  he  came 
to  the  hotel  at  long  intervals,  and  give  him  something  to 
eat. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ? "  Tug  inquired,  looking  sharply  at 
the  boy,  as  he  stood  cringing  before  him. 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"Then  help  yourself,"  his  father  roughly  returned, 
crabbed  because  Ben  had  told  the  truth,  and  pointing  to 
the  table ;  whereupon  the  boy  went  to  nibbling  away  at 
the  crumbs  and  bones  remaining  of  the  lunch  brought  by 
Silas. 

Little  Ben  was  so  surprisingly  small  for  a  boy  of  eleven 
that  he  was  compelled  to  stand  to  reach  the  crumbs  and 
bones,  but  his  father  regarded  him  as  a  brawny  youth 
as  tough  as  dogwood. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  of  his  age,"  Tug  said  to  Davy, 
"  they  dressed  me  up  in  good  clothes,  and  admired  me, 
and  thought  I  was  about  the  cutest  thing  on  earth,  but  I 
was  n't." 

Davy  looked  up  as  if  to  inquire  what  he  really  was  at 
Ben's  age,  and  received  an  answer. 

"I  was  an  impudent  imp,  and  detested  by  all  the 
neighbors;  that's  the  truth.  My  father  used  to  go 
around  town,  and  tell  the  people  the  cute  things  I  said, 


THE   FACE   AT   THE   WINDOW.  35 

instead  of  making  me  go  to  work,  and  teaching  me 
industry ;  but  the  people  did  n't  share  his  enthusiasm, 
and  referred  to  me  as  that  '  worthless  Whittle  boy.'  Ben, 
what  can  you  do?" 

"  I  can  cut  corn,  sir,  and  drive  the  team,  and  plough  a 
little,"  the  boy  replied,  startled  by  his  father's  loud  voice. 

"Anything  else?" 

"I  can't  remember  everything,  sir.  I  do  as  much  as 
I  can." 

Little  Ben  did  not  look  as  though  he  could  be  of  much 
use  on  a  farm,  for  he  was  very  thin,  and  very  weak-look 
ing;  but  apparently  this  did  not  occur  to  his  father,  who 
continued  to  stare  at  him  as  though  he  wondered  at  his 
strength. 

"Think  of  that,  will  you,"  Tug  continued,  addressing 
Silas  again.  "  He  can  cut  corn,  and  plough,  and  all  that, 
and  only  eleven  years  old.  Why,  when  he  gets  to  be 
thirteen  or  fourteen  he  will  whip  old  Quade,  and  take 
possession  of  the  farm !  What  could  I  do  when  I  was 
eleven  years  old?  Nothing  but  whine,  and  I  was  always 
at  it,  although  I  was  brought  up  in  a  house  with  three- 
ply  carpets  on  the  floor,  and  always  treated  well.  I  was 
treated  too  well,  and  I  intend  to  make  a  man  out  of  Ben 
by  seeing  that  he  is  treated  as  mean  as  possible.  Look 
here,  you,"  he  added  turning  toAvard  the  boy,  "'when  old 
Quade  fails  to  lick  you  twice  a  day,  get  your  hat  and  run 
for  me  ;  and  I  '11  try  and  make  you  so  miserable  that  you  '11 
amount  to  something  as  a  man." 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Davy  that  Ben  was  meanly 
enough  treated  already,  not  only  by  his  father,  but  by  the 
farmer  with  whom  he  worked ;  for  no  one  seemed  to  be 
kind  to  the  boy  except  himself,  and  he  made  his  long 
journeys  to  town  for  no  other  reason  than  to  hear  Davy's 
gentle  voice.  But  Davy  was  afraid  to  say  this  to  Tug, 


36        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

and  in  his  weakness  could  do  nothing  to  help  him.  In 
the  present  instance  he  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  You  are  a  fortunate  boy  in  one  respect,  at  least,"  the 
admirino-  father  said  to  his  son  a<2;ain.  "Your  mother 

O  O 

hates  you,  and  you  have  a  prospect  of  becoming  a  man. 
Many  a  boy  at  your  age  has  a  good  bed  to  sleep  on,  and 
plenty  to  eat,  and  will  grow  up  into  a  loafer;  but  here 
you  •  are  on  the  high  i-oad  to  greatness.  Had  my  father 
been  a  wise  man,  as  your  father  is,  I  might  have  been  a 
storekeeper  now  instead  of  what  I  am ;  therefore  don't 
let  me  hear  you  complain  —  I  '11  give  you  something  to 
complain  about  if  I  do.  The  ways  of  Providence  may  be 
a  little  mysterious  to  you  now,  you  robust  rascal ;  but 
when  the  lion.  Benjamin  Whittle  goes  to  Congress  he 
will  tell  the  reporter  who  writes  him  up  that  his  father 
was  a  kind,  thoughtful  man  who  did  a  great  deal  for 
him." 

There  was  something  more  than  the  darkness  peering 
in  at  the  window  when  Silas  Davy  looked  that  way ;  a 
good  deal  more  —  a  strange  man's  face,  which  was  flat 
tened  against  the  lower  pane.  At  the  moment  that  Silas 
saw  him,  the  man  seemed  to  be  using  his  eyes  in  investi 
gating  the  other  corner  of  the  room,  for  he  did  not  know 
for  a  moment  that  he  was  detected.  When  his  gaze  met 
Silas  Davy's,  he  quickly  drew  away  from  the  window, 
and  disappeared  ;  but  not  until  Silas  remarked  that  it  was 
a  swarthy,  malicious  face,  and  that  cunning  and  deter 
mination  were  expressed  in  its  features.  Silas  was  not  at 
all  astonished  at  the  appearance,  as  was  his  custom ;  but 
when  he  looked  at  Tug  again,  to  pay  respectful  attention 
to  his  next  observation,  he  saw  that  he,  too,  had  seen  the 
face,  for  he  was  preparing  to  go  out. 

"  Another  stranger,"  Tug  said,  as  he  looked  for  his  hat. 
"We  are  becoming  a  great  town." 


THE   FACE   AT   THE   WINDOW.  37 

Silas  asked  no  question*,  but  when  his  companion 
stepped  into  the  dirty  street,  leaving  little  Ben  alone,  he 
followed,  and  walked  a  few  paces  behind  him,  as  he  hur 
ried  along  in  the  direction  of  the  inhabited  portion  of  the 
town.  As  they  rieared  the  dismal  lamps,  and  while  they 
were  yet  in  the  darkness,  the}"  saw  the  figure  of  a  tall 
man,  enveloped  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  waterproof  cloak, 
turn  into  the  main  street,  which  ran  parallel  with  the 
river,  and  walk  toward  the  hotel  where  Davy  was  em 
ployed.  But  the  man  wearing  the  cloak  did  not  stop 
there,  except  to  examine  a  scrap  of  paper  under  the  light; 
after  which  he  turned  again,  and  walked  in  the  direction 
of  The  Locks.  Silas  and  his  companion  followed,  as  rap 
idly  as  they  could,  for  there  were  no  lights  now,  and  they 
stumbled  over  the  hills,  and  into  the  gullies,  until  The 
Locks  gate  was  reached,  which  they  found  ajar. 

This  strange  circumstance  did  not  deter  them  from 
entering  at  once,  though  quietly  and  with  caution,  and 
together  they  crept  up  the  pavement,  and  up  the  front 
steps,  through  the  front  door,  which  was  wide  open,  and 
up  the  stairway,  until  they  stopped  in  front  of  the  door 
leading  into  the  room  occupied  by  Allan  Dorris. 

Everything  was  still;  and  as  they  stood  there  in  the 
dark,  listening,  Tug  was  surprised  to  find  that  Davy  was 
in  front  of  him,  whereas  he  had  believed  that  'he  was  in 
his  rear.  Likewise  Silas  Davy  was  surprised,  for  while  he 
was  sure  that  Tug  had  passed  him,  and  gone  lightly  down 
the  stairs,  a  moment  afterward  he  put  his  hand  on  him, 
and  knew  that  he  was  bending  over,  and  listening  at  the 
keyhole. 

But  nothing  could  be  heard  except  the  regular  breath 
ing  of  Allan  Dorris  as  he  slept  in  his  chair,  although  they 
now  realized  that  the  mysterious  stranger  had  passed 
them  on  the  stab's,  and  was  on  the  outside ;  so  they  crept 


38  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

down  the  stairs,  and  into  the  street,  closing  the  door  and 
gate  after  them. 

Over  the  hills  and  into  the  hollows  again ;  so  they  trav 
elled  back  to  their  retreat  down  by  the  river,  where  they 
greatly  surprised  little  Ben  and  the  rats  by  opening  the 
door  suddenly  and  walking  in  upon  them. 

Silas  dropped  down  on  the  bed,  and  Tug  into  a  chair, 
where  they  remained  a  long  time  without  speaking. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  "  Tug  inquired  at  last. 

"  Nothing,"  Silas  rettmied. 

There  was  another  long  silence,  which  was  finally  broken 
by  Tug  remarking,  — 

"I  make  nothing  of  it,  myself.  We  are  agreed  for 
once." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

DAVY'S  BEND. 

TT  was  generally  agreed  among  the  people  of  Davy's 
-L  Bend  —  a  thousand  in  number,  the  census  said ;  six 
hundred  they  said  themselves,  for  they  changed  the  rule, 
and  exaggerated  their  own  situation  unfavorably  —  that 
the  town  possessed  more  natural  advantages  than  any 
other  in 'the  world. 

They  demonstrated  this  with  great  cleverness,  by  means 
of  maps  drawn  on  brown  wrapping-paper  inside  of  the 
stores,  and,  after  looking  at  their  maps,  they  triumphantly 
exclaimed,  with  a  whack  of  their  fists  on  the  counter, 
"There  are  the  figures;  and  figures  won't  lie."  But  in 
spite  of  their  maps  showing  valleys  occupied  with  rail 
roads  (which  Capital  neglected  to  build),  Ben's  City,  be 
low  them,  continued  to  prosper,  whereas  Davy's  Bend 
continued  to  go  steadily  down  the  hill. 

The  people  did  little  else  than  wonder  at  this,  and  curse 
Capital  because  it  did  not  locate  in  a  town  where  nature 
was  lavish  in  the  matter  of  location,  instead  of  going  to 
a  place  where  it  would  always  find  the  necessity  of  con 
tending  against  odds  confronting  it.  Such  a  town  was 

O          ~  O 

Ben's  City,  in  the  estimation  of  those  living  at  Davy's 
Bend ;  but  they  must  have  been  mistaken,  for  great  houses 
and  institutions  grew  up  where  little  had  been  planted,  and 
men  with  money  trampled  upon  each  other  in  their  mad 

39 


40  THE   MYSTERY   OF   THE   LOCKS. 

haste  to  take  advantage  of  the  prosperity  that  seemed  to 
be  in  the  air.  Those  who  drew  the  maps  declared  that  a 
crash  was  soon  to  come,  when  the  capitalists  who  did  not 
know  their  own  interests  would  trample  upon  each  other 
in  their  haste  to  get,  away ;  but  those  who  bought  Ben's 
City  property,  no  difference  at  what  price,  soon  sold  out 
again  at  an  advance ;  and  the  prosperity  of  the  place 
was  quite  phenomenal. 

Never  was  Capital  so  thoroughly  hated  as  in  Davy's 
Bend.  It  was  cursed  a  thousand  times  a  day,  and  shown 
to  be  fickle  and  foolish  and  ungrateful ;  for  evidences  of 
these  weaknesses  on  the  part  of  Capital  abounded  on  every 
hand.  There  were  railroads  to  be  built  out  of  Davy's 
Bend  that  would  pay  immensely,  as  had  been  demonstrated 
times  without  number  by  the  local  paper;  but  Capital 
stubbornly  refused  to  build  them,  preferring  to  earn  a 
beggarly  per  cent  elsewhere.  There  were  manufactories 
to  be  built  in  Davy's  Bend  that  would  make  their  owners 
rich,  as  every  child  knew  ;  but  Capital,  after  a  full  investi 
gation,  was  so  dull  that  it  could  not  see  the  opportunity. 
The  town  was  alive  with  opportunities  for  profitable  in 
vestments,  but  Capital,  with  a  mean  and  dogged  indiffer 
ence,  refused  to  come  to  Davy's  Bend ;  therefore  Capital 
was  hated,  and  bullied,  and  cursed,  and  denounced;  and 
it  was  generally  agreed  that  it  deserved  no  better  fate  than 
to  go  to  ruin  in  the  general  crash  that  would  finally  over 
take  Ben's  City. 

The  people  of  Davy's  Bend  were  a  good  deal  like  a 
grumbling  and  idle  man,  who  spends  the  time  which 
should  be  devoted  to  improving  his  condition  to  grum 
bling  about  his  own  ill  luck  and  the  good  luck  of  his 
industrious  rival,  who  is  steadily  prospering;  and  as  men 
frequently  believe  that  the  fates  are  against  them  when 
they  are  themselves  their  only  opposition,  so  it  Avas 


DAVY'S  BI:ND.  41 

generally  believed  in  this  wretched  little  town  that  some 
sort  of  a  powerful  and  alert  goddess  was  in  league  with 
Ben's  City.  While  they  readily  admitted  their  own 
points  of  advantage,  even  to  the  extent  of  giving  them 
selves  more  credit  than  they  deserved,  they  refused  to  be 
equally  fair  with  their  competitor,  as  men  do,  and  con 
tended,  with  an  ignorant  persistency,  that  Ben's  City  was 
prosperous  because  of  "  luck,"  whereas  they  should  have 
known  that  there  is  no  such  thing,  either  good  or  bad. 

But,  in  course  of  time,  when  they  found  that  they 
would  always  be  in  the  rear,  no  difference  whether  they 
liked  it  or  not,  the  people  of  the  Bend,  in  order  to  more 
thoroughly  denounce  their  own  town  for  its  lack  of 
ability  to  attract  Capital,  began  to  exaggerate  the  import 
ance  of  Ben's  City.  A  four-story  building  there  became 
seven  sttfries  high,  and  those  who  visited  the  place  vied 
with  each  other  in  giving  vivid  and  untruthful  accounts 
of  its  growth  and  prosperity  on  their  return  ;  all  of  which 
their  acquaintances  repeated  over  and  over,  though  they 
knew  it  to  be  untrue,  even  adding  to  the  exaggerated 
statements,  in  order  to  bully  their  own  meek  town. 

Probably  they  were  not  proud  of  the  greatness  of  their 
rival;  for  they  talked  of  it  as  a  cowardly  man  might 
exaggerate  the  strength  of  the  fellow  who  had  whipped 
him,  using  it  as  an  excuse  for  defeat.  Indeed,  they  were 
proud  of  nothing,  except  their  own  accounts  of  the  great 
ness  of  Davy's  Bend  a  long  while  before,  when  the  huge 
warehouses  were  occupied,  and  before  Capital  had  com 
bined  against  it ;  of  this  they  talked  in  a  boastful  way, 
magnifying  everything  so  much  that  many  of  the  listeners 
who  had  not  heard  the  beginning  of  the  conversation 
imagined  that  they  were  talking  of  Ben's  City  ;  but  of 
bettering  their  present  condition  they  had  no  thought, — 
by  common  consent  it  was  so  very  bad  that  attempts  tr 


42         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

become  prosperous  again  were  useless,  so  the  Bend  was  a 
little  worse  off  every  year1,  like  an  old  and  unsuccessful 
man. 

Most  of  the  business  men  of  Davy's  Bend  had  been 
clerks  in  the  days  of  the  town's  prosperity,  making  their 
own  terms  when  their  energetic  employers  wanted  to 
get  away,  and  in  spite  of  the  general  dullness  and  lack  of 
success,  they  entertained  very  good  opinions  of  them 
selves;  for  no  difference  what  a  citizen's  misfortunes 
were,  he  loaded  them  all  on  the  town,  and  thus  apolo 
gized  for  his  own  lack  of  ability.  But  for  the  circum 
stance  that  he  was  tied  to  Davy's  Bend,  he  would  have 
been  great  and  distinguished ;  they  all  said  the  same 
thing,  and  in  order  to  get  his  own  story  believed,  every 
man  found  it  necessary  to  accept  the  explanations  of  the 
others,  or  pretend  to  ;  so  it  happened  that  the  people  did 
not  hold  themselves  responsible  for  anything,  —  the  town 
in  which  they  lived  was  to  blame  for  everything  that  was 
disagreeable,  and  was  denounced  accordingly. 

The  esteem  with  which  the  people  regarded  themselves 
was  largely  due  to  the  manner  in  which  they  were  re 
ferred  to  in  the  local  paper,  a  ribald  folio  appearing  once 
a  week.  None  of  the  business  men  were  advertisers,  but 
they  all  gave  the  publisher  free  pardon  if  he  referred  to 
them  in  complimentary  terms  in  his  reading  columns,  and 
sent  in  his  bill.  Thus,  the  merchant  who  did  not  own  the 
few  goods  he  displayed  was  often  referred  to  as  a  mer 
chant  prince,  with  an  exceedingly  shrewd  business  head 
on  his  shoulders.  Sometimes  notices  of  this  character 
'were  left  standing  from  week  to  week  by  the  shiftless 
editor ;  a  great  number  of  them  would  occasionally  get 
together  on  the  same  page,  referring  to  different  men 
as  the  shrewdest,  the  wisest,  the  most  energetic,  etc. ;  and 
it  was  very  ridiculous,  except  to  the  persons  concerned, 


DAVY'S  BEND.  43 

who  believed  that  the  people  read  the  notices  with  great 
pleasure. 

So  great  was  the  passion  for  puffery  among  them  that 
designing  men  who  heard  of  it  came  along  quite  fre 
quently,  and  wrote  the  people  up  in  special  publications 
devoted  to  that  kind  of  literature.  There  would  be  a 
pretence  that  the  special  edition  was  to  be  devoted  to 
the  town,  but  it  really  consisted  of  a  few  lines  at  the 
beginning,  stating  that  Davy's  Bend  had  more  natural 
advantages  than  any  other  town  in  the  world,  and  four 
pages  of  puffs  of  the  people,  at  so  much  per  line ;  where 
upon  the  men  made  fun  of  all  the  notices  except  their 
own,  believing  that  its  statements  were  true,  and  gener 
ally  accepted  as  a  part  of  the  town's  history.  A  few  of 
those  who  were  able  had  engravings  inserted,  and  the 
puff  writers,  in  order  to  make  the  notices  and  bills  as 
large  as  possible,  told  how  long  and  how  often  the  sub 
jects  had  been  married ;  how  many  children  they  had, 
together  with  their  names,  where  they  came  from,  and 
much  other  mild  information  of  this  character. 

It  was  known  that  many  of  the  complimentary  sketches 
were  written  by  the  persons  to  whom  they  referred ;  but 
while  Harrisonfield,  the  grocer,  gave  wide  circulation  to 
the,  fact  that  Porterfield,  of  the  dry-goods  store,  had  re 
ferred  to  himself  as  an  intellectual  giant,  and  a  business 
man  of  such  sterling  ability  that  he  had  received  flatter 
ing  offers  to  remove  to  Ben's  City,  he  did  not  know  that 
Porterfield  was  proving  the  same  indiscretion  with  refer 
ence  to  himself. 

Every  new  man  who  wrote  up  the  town  in  this  manner 
was  more  profuse  with  compliments  of  the  people  than 
his  predecessor  had  been  ;  and  finally  the  common  language 
was  inadequate  to  describe  their  greatness,  and  they 
longed  for  somebody  to  come  along  who  could  "  write," 


44        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

and  who  could  fully  explain  how  much  each  one  was 
doing  for  the  town ;  but  although  they  all  professed  to  be 
doing  a  great  deal  constantly  for  Davy's  Bend,  there  was 
no  reason  to  believe  that  any  of  them  were  accomplishing 
anything  in  this  direction,  for  it  could  not  have  been 
duller  than  it  was  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  just  referred 
to. 

But  there  was  an  exception  to  this  rule,  as  there  is  said 
to  be  to  all  others,  —  Thompson  Benton,  the  merchant ; 
the  dealer  in  everything,  as  the  advertisements  on  his 
wrapping-paper  stated,  for  he  advertised  nowhere  else. 
But  he  was  reliable  and  sensible,  as  well  as  stout  and 
surly  ;  so  it  was  generally  conceded  that  he  was  the  fore 
most  citizen  of  the  Bend. 

Not  that  he  made  a  pretence  to  this  distinction;  old 
Thompson  was  modest  as  well  as  capable,  and  whatever 
good  was  said  of  him  came  from  the  people  themselves. 
Had  there  been  new  people  coming  to  Davy's  Bend  occa 
sionally,  it  is  possible  that  old  Thompson  would  not  have 
been  the  leading  citizen,  for  it  was  said  that  he  "  improved 
on  acquaintance,"  and  that  people  hated  the  ground  he 
walked  on  until  they  had  known  him  a  dozen  years  or 
more,  and  found  out  his  sterling  virtues ;  but  they  had  all 
known  him  a  great  many  years,  and  therefore  admired 
him  in  spite  of  themselves. 

Thompson  Benton  had  been  a  resident  of  the  town  in 
the  days  of  its  prosperity,  and  ranked  with  the  best  of 
those  who  had  moved  away ;  but  he  preferred  to  remain, 
since  he  had  become  attached  to  his  home,  and  feared  that 
he  could  not  find  one  which  would  suit  him  equally  well 
elsewhere.  Besides,  he  owned  precious  property  in  the 
Davy's  Bend  cemetery,  and  lavished  upon  it  the  greatest 
care.  Hard  though  he  was  in  his  transactions  with  men, 
the  memory  of  his  wife  was  sacred  to  him ;  and  many  be- 


DAVY'S  BEND.  45 

lieved  that,  had  she  lived,  he  would  have  been  less  plain- 
spoken  and  matter-of-fact.  This  devotion  was  well  known ; 
and  when  the  people  found  it  necessary  to  forgive  him 
for  a  new  eccentricity,  —  for  it  was  necessary  to  either  for 
give  him  or  tight  him, — they  said  he  had  never  recovered 
his  spirits  since  the  day  a  coffin  was  driven  up  to  his 
house. 

His  store  was  always  open  at  seven  in  the  morning,  and 
the  proprietor  always  opened  it  himself,  with  a  great  iron 
key  that  looked  as  venerable  and  substantial  as  the  hale 
old  gentleman  whose  companion  it  had  been  so  many 
years ;  for  it  was  not  a  key  of  the  new  sort,  that  might 
lock  up  a  trilling  man's  affairs,  but  a  key  that  seemed  to 
say  as  plainly  as  could  be  that  it  h'ad  money  and  notes 
and  valuable  goods  of  many  kinds  in  its  charge.  At  six 
in  the  evening  his  store  was  closed,  and  the  proprietor 
turned  the  key,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  At  noon  he 
ate  his  frugal  dinner  while  seated  on  a  high  stool  at  his 

O  C3 

desk,  and  he  had  been  heard  to  say  that  he  had  not  eaten 
at  home  at  midday  in  fifteen  years ;  for  on  Sundays  he 
dined  in  state  at  five  o'clock. 

There  were  no  busy  days  in  Davy's  Bend,  therefore  he 
got  along  without  a  clerk,  and  managed  his  affairs  so  well 
that,  in  spite  of  the  dulness  of  which  there  was  such  gen 
eral  complaint,  he  knew  that  he  was  a  little  richer  at  the 
close  of  every  day,  and  that  he  was  probably  doing  better 
than  many  of  his  old  associates  who  were  carrying  on 
business  with  a  great  deal  of  noise  and  display  in  Ben's 
City.  Certainly  lie  was  reputed  to  be  rich,  and  those  who 
were  less  industrious  said  that  he  should  have  retired 
years  before,  and  given  others  a  chance. 

Thompson  Benton  was  known  as  a  plain-spoken  man, 
and  if  he  thought  one  of  his  customers  had  acted  dishon 
estly  with  him,  he  said  so  at  the  first  opportunity,  and 


46  THE  MYSTERY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

gruffly  hoped  it  would  n't  happen  again ;  by  which  he  was 
understood  to  mean  that  if  it  did  happen  again,  there 
would  be  a  difficulty  in  which  the  right  would  triumph. 
Indeed,  he  had  been  known  to  throw  men  out  of  the  front 
door  in  a  very  rough  manner,  two  and  three  at  a  time  ;  but 
the  people  always  said  he  was  right,  and  so  it  usually 
turned  out,  for  he  was  never  offended  without  cause.  If  an 
impostor  came  to  the  town,  the  people  were  fully  revenged 
if  he  called  at  Benton's  store,  for  the  proprietor  told  him 
what  he  thought  of  him,  and  in  language  so  plain  that  it 
was  always  understood. 

Thompson  Benton's  principal  peculiarity  was  his  refusal 
to  be  a  fool.  The  men  who  threatened  to  leave  the  town 
because  they  were  not  appreciated  received  no  petting 
from  him ;  indeed,  he  told  them  to  go,  and  try  and  find  a 
place  where  they  would  not  grumble  so  much.  The  suc 
cessors  of  the  business  men  who  had  moved  away  were 
always  trying  to  invent  new  methods  as  an  evidence  of 
their  ability,  and  some  of  them  did  not  pay  their  debts 
because  that  was  an  old,  though  respectable,  custom ;  they 
rejected  everything  old,  no  matter  how  acceptable  it  had 
pi-oved  itself,  and  got  along  in  an  indifferent  manner 
with  methods  invented  by  themselves,  though  the  meth 
ods  of  their  inventing  were  usually  lame  and  unsatisfac 
tory.  For  such  foolishness  as  this  old  Thompson  had  no 
charity,  as  he  believed  in  using  the  experience  of  others 
to  his  own  profit ;  so  he  raised  his  voice  against  the  cus 
toms  of  the  town,  and  though  he  was  usually  abused  for 
it,  it  was  finally  acknowledged  that  he  was  right. 

But  notwithstanding  his  austere  manner,  the  people 
had  confidence  in  old  Thompson,  and  many  of  the  town  dis 
putes  were  left  to  him.  If  the  people  had  spare  money,  th e y 
asked  the  privilege  of  leaving  it  in  his  iron  safe  (which  had 
belonged  to  the  last  bank  that  moved  away),  and  took  his 


DAVY'S  BEXD.  47 

receipt  for  it.  When  they  wanted  it  again,  it  was  always 
ready ;  and  if  the  Ben's  City  cracksmen  ever  came  that 
way  to  look  at  the  safe,  they  concluded  that  the  propri 
etor  would  prove  an  ugly  customer,  for  it  was  never  dis 
turbed. 

His  family  consisted  of  a  maiden  sister  almost  as  old 
and  odd  as  himself,  and  his  daughter  Annie,  who  had 
been  motherless  since  she  was  five  years  old.  The  people 
said  that  old  Thompson  never  smiled  during  the  day  ex 
cept  when  his  pretty  daughter  came  in,  and  that  his  only 
recreation  was  in  her  society  during  two  hours  in  the 
evening,  when  she  read  to  him,  or  played,  or  sang. 
They  were  all  certain  that  he  was  "wrapped  up"  in 
her,  and  it  was  also  agreed  that  this  devotion  was  not 
without  cause;  for  a  better  girl  or  a  prettier  girl  than 
Annie  Benton  was  not  to  be  found  in  all  the  country 
round. 

The  house  in  which  he  lived  was  as  stout  as  brick  and 
mortar  could  make  it ;  for  the  people  said  that  he  inspected 
every  brick  and  stick  as  it  was  used ;  and  when  it  was  com 
pleted,  his  prudish  sister,  whom  he  referred  to  as  the 
"Ancient  Maiden,"  was  equally  careful  in  the  furnishing, 
so  that  it  was  a  very  good  house,  and  kept  with  scrupulous 
neatness.  The  Ancient  Maiden's  drafts  were  always 
honored,  for  nothing  was  too  good  for  Thompson  Benton's 
home ;  and  those  who  went  there  never  forgot  the  air  of 

*  O 

elegant  comfort  which  pervaded  everything.  Though 
Thompson  Benton  went  down  town  in  the  morning  with 
the  men  who  worked  by  the  day,  and  carried  a  lunch  bas 
ket,  he  dined  in  the  evening  in  state,  surrounded  by  silver 
and  china  both  rich  and  rare ;  though  he  worked  ten  hours 
a  day,  and  ate  ft,  lunch  at  noon,  he  slept  at  night  in  a  bed 
and  in  a  room  which  would  have  rested  a  king ;  and  his 
house  was  as  good  as  any  man's  need  be. 


48         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Very  early  in  life  Aunie  Benton  learned,  somehow, 
that  it  had  been  one  of  her  father's  pleasures,  when  he 
came  home  at  night,  to  listen  to  her  mother's  piano-play 
ing,  when  that  excellent  lady  was  alive  ;  and,  resolving  to 
supply  the  vacant  place,  she  studied  so  industriously  with 
the  poor  teachers  the  town  afforded  that  at  fifteen  she  was 
complimented  by  frequent  invitations  to  play  for  thegluni 
and  plain-spoken  merchant.  If  she  selected  something 
frivolous,  and  played  it  in  bad  taste  or  time,  and  was  not 
invited  to  play  again  for  a  long  while,  she  understood  that 
her  music  did  not  please  him,  and  studied  to  remedy  her 
fault.  In  course  of  time  she  found  out  what  he  wanted, 
though  he  never  gave  her  advice  or  suggestion  in  reference 
to  it ;  and  he  hud  amply  repaid  her  for  all  the  pains  she 
had  been  to  by  saying  once,  after  she  had  played  for  him 
half  an  hour  in  a  dark  room,  while  he  rested  on  a.  sofa 
near  her,  that  she  was  growing  more  like  her  mother  every 
day. 

"  There  were  few  ladies  like  your  mother,  Annie,"  old 
Thompson  would  say,  when  the  girl  thanked  him  for  his 
appreciation.  "It  pleases  me  that  you  remind  me  of  her, 
and  if  you  become  as  good  a  woman  as  she  was,  it  will  be 
very  remarkable,  for  you  have  had  no  mother,  poor  child, 
to  direct  you  in  her  way." 

Annie  would  try  harder  than  ever,  after  this,  to  imi 
tate  the  virtues  of  the  dead  woman,  and  bothered  the 
Ancient  Maiden  a  great  deal  to  find  out  what  she  was 
like.  She  was  not  a  drone,  that  much  was  certain ;  there 
fore  the  daughter  was  not,  and  tried  to  be  as  useful  in  the 
hive  as  she  imagined  her  mother  had  been,  in  every  way 
in  which  a  worthy  woman  distinguishes  herself. 

In  like  manner  the  girl  learned  to  read  to  please  her 
father,  and  every  day  he  brought  home  with  him  somethin  r 
he  had  come  into  possession  of  during  the  day,  and  which  he 


DAVY'S  BEND.  49 

wanted  read  ;  a  book,  a  pamphlet,  or  a  marked  paragraph 
in  a  newspaper, — lie  seemed  to  read  nothing  himself  ex 
cept  business  letters ;  but  none  of  these,  or  any  mention  of 
his  affairs,  ever  came  into  his  home. 

Annie  Benton's  mother  had  been  organist  in  the  big 
stone  church  near  The  Locks,  which  the  first  residents  had 
built  in  the  days  of  their  prosperity,  and  the  girl  learned 
from  family  friends  that  her  father  regularly  attended  both 
services  on  Sunday,  to  hear  the  music;  pei'haps  there  were 
certain  effects  possible  on  the  great  organ  which  were  not 
possible  on  a  more  frivolous  instrument ;  but  it  was  certain 
that  he  never  attended  after  her  death  until  two  or  three 
years  after  his  daughter  became  the  organist,  and  after 
she  was  complimented  on  every  hand  for  her  voluntaries 
before  and  after  the  services,  and  for  her  good  taste  in 
rendering  the  hymns ;  for  old  Thompson  was  not  a 
religious  man,  though  he  practised  the  principles  of 
religion  much  better  than  many  of  those  who  made 
professions. 

But  one  summer  morning  the  girl  saw  her  father  come 
in,  and  occupy  the  seat  he  had  occupied  before  her 
mother's  death,  and  regularly  after  that  he  came  early  and 
went  away  late.  Except  to  say  to  her  once,  as  they 
walked  home  together,  that  she  was  growing  mor.e  like 
her  mother  every  day,  he  made  no  reference  to  the  sub 
ject,  though  he  pretended  to  wonder  what  the  matter 
was  when  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  after  they 
reached  the  house,  and  burst  into  tears. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  had  said  to  her  that  if  she  was 
going  down  to  the  church  to  practise,  he  would  accom 
pany  her,  and  after  that,  every  Sunday  afternoon  he  was 
invited  to  go  with  her,  although  she  never  had  practised 
on  Sunday  afternoons  before.  Arriving  there,  an  old 
negro  janitor  pumped  the  organ,  and  the  girl  played  until 


50        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

she  thought  her  father  was  tired,  when  they  returned  home 
again,  where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  alone; 
thinking,  no  doubt,  of  his  property  in  the  cemetery,  and 
of  the  sad  day  when  it  became  necessary  to  make  the  pur 
chase. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  TROUBLED  FANCY. 

TT  was  Annie  Benton's  playing  which  Allan  Dorris  occa- 
J-  sionally  heard  as  he  wandered  about  the  yard  of  The 
Locks,  for  she  came  to  the  church  twice  a  week  in  order 
that  she  might  pretend  to  practise  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
and  please  her  father's  critical  ear  with  finished  playing; 
and  Dorris  was  so  much  impressed  with  the  excellence 
of  the  music  that  he  concluded  one  afternoon  to  look  at 
the  performer. 

In  a  stained-glass  window  looking  toward  The  Locks 
there  was  a  broken  square,  little  larger  than  his  eye,  and 
he  climbed  up  on  the  wall  and  looked  through  this  open 
ing. 

A  pretty  girl  of  twenty,  a  picture  of  splendid  health, 
with  dark  hair,  and  features  as  regularly  cut  as  those  of  a 
marble  statue,  instead  of  the  spectacled  professor  he 
expected  to  see.  Allan  Dorris  jumped  down  on  the  outer 
side  of  the  wall,  and,  going  around  to  the  front  of  the 
church,  entered  the  door. 

The  player  was  so  intent  with  her  work  that  she  did 
not  notice  his  approach  up  the  carpeted  aisle,  until  she  had 
finished,  and  he  stood  almost  beside  her.  She  gave  a  little 
start  on  seeing  him,  but  collected  herself,  and  looked  at 
him  soberly,  as  if  to  inquire  why  he  was  there. 

"I  hope  you  will  pardon  me,"  he  said  in  an  easy,  self- 
possessed  way,  "but  I  live  in  the  place  next  door  called 

51 


52         THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

The  Locks,  and  having  often  heard  you  play  of  late,  I 
made  bold  to  come  in." 

"All  are  welcome  here,"  the  girl  replied,  turning  the 
leaves  of  the  book  before  her,  and  apparently  paying  little 
attention  to  Dorris.  "  You  have  as  much  right  here  as  I, 
and  if  I  can  please  anyone  with  my  dull  exercises,  I  am 
glad  of  the  opportunity." 

Allan  Dorris  seated  himself  in  a  chair  that  stood  on  the 
platform  devoted  to  the  choir,  and  observed  that  the  girl 
had  splendid  eyes  and  splendid  teeth,  as  well  as  handsome 
features. 

"Do  you  mind  my  saying  that  I  think  you  are  very 
pretty  ?  "  he  inquired,  after  looking  at  her  intently  as  she 
turned  over  the  music. 

Allan  Dorris  thought  from  the  manner  in  which  she 
looked  at  him  that  she  had  never  been  told  this  before, 
for  she  blushed  deeply,  though  she  did  not  appear  con 
fused. 

"I  don't  say  it  as  a  compliment,"  he  continued,  without 
giving  her  an  opportunity  to  reply ;  "  but  I  enjoyed  the 
playing  so  much  that  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  the  per 
former,  fearing  he  would  be  so  hideously  ugly  as  to  spoil 
the  effect ;  but  you  are  so  much  handsomer  than  I  expected 
that  I  cannot  help  mentioning  it." 

"  You  are  a  surprise  to  me,  too,"  the  girl  replied,  avoid 
ing  the  compliment  he  had  paid  her,  and  with  good 
nature.  "  I  imagined  that  the  new  occupant  of  The  Locks 
was  older  than  you  are." 

There  was  a  polite  carelessness  in  his  manner  which 
indicated  that  he  was  accustomed  to  mingling  with  all 
sorts  of  people ;  for  he  was  as  much  at  his  ease  in  the 
presence  of  Annie  Benton  as  he  had  been  with  Mrs. 
Wedge,  or  with  Silas  and  Tug. 

"  I  am  so  old  in  experience  that  I  often  feel  that  I  look 


A   TROUBLED   FANCY.  53 

old  in  years,"  he  replied,  looking  at  the  girl  again,  as 
though  about  to  repeat  his  remark  concerning  her  beauty. 
"I  am  glad  I  do  not  appear  old  to  you.  You  have 
returned  my  compliment." 

The  girl  made  no  other  reply  than  to  smile  lightly,  and 
then  look  intently  at  her  music,  as  an  apology  for  smiling 
at  all. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

Annie  Benton  looked  a  little  startled  at  the  question, 
but  replied,  — 

"Twenty." 

"  Have  you  a  lover?" 

This  seemed  to  require  an  indignant  answer,  and  she 
looked  at  him  sharply  for  that  purpose,  when  she  discov 
ered  that  there  was  not  a  particle  of  impudence  in  his 
manner,  but  rather  a  friendly  interest.  He  made  the 
inquiry  as  an  uncle  might,  who  had  long  heard  of  a  pretty 
niece  whom  he  had  never  met ;  so  she  compromised  the 
matter  by  shaking  her  head. 

"  That 's  strange,"  he  returned.  "  It  must  be  because 
the  young  men  are  afraid  of  you,  for  you  are  about  the 
prettiest  thing  of  any  kind  I  have  ever  seen.  It  is  fortu 
nate  that  you  live  in  Davy's  Bend;  a  more  intelligent 
people  would  spoil  you  with  flattery.  Will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  play  for  me?" 

The  girl  was  rather  pleased  than  offended  at  what  he 
said,  for  there  was  nothing  of  rudeness  in  his  manner; 
and  when  she  had  signified  her  willingness  to  grant  his 
request,  he  went  back  to  the  pews,  and  sat  down  to. listen 
to  the  music.  When  the  tones  of  the  organ  broke  the 
silence,  Dorris  was  satisfied  that  the  girl  was  not  playing 
exercises,  for  the  music  was  very  beautiful,  and  rendered 
with  excellent  judgment. 

Her  taste  seemed  to  run  in  the  direction  of  extravagant 


54  THE  MYSTERY   OF   THE  LOCKS. 

chords  and  odd  combinations ;  the  listener  happened  to 
like  the  same  sort  of  thing,  too,  and  the  performance  had 
such  an  effect  upon  him  that  he  could  not  remain  in  his 
seat,  but  walked  softly  up  and  down  the  aisle.  The  frown 
upon  his  face  was  very  much  like  that  which  occupied  it 
when  he  walked  alone  in  his  own  room,  after  permitting 
himself  to  think ;  for  there  were  wild  cries  in  the  music, 
and  mournful  melodies.  When  it  ceased,  he  walked  up 
to  the  player,  and  asked  what  she  had  been  playing. 

"I  don't  know  myself,"  she  answered,  looking  at  him 
curiously,  but  timidly,  as  if  anxious  to  know  more  of  him. 
"It  was  a  combination  of  many  of  the  chords  I  have 
learned  from  time  to  time  that  pleased  me.  My  father, 
who  is  a  very  intelligent  man,  likes  them,  and  I  thought 
you  might.  It  was  made  up  from  hymns,  vespers,  anthems* 
ballads,  and  everything  else  I  have  ever  heard." 

"  The  performance  was  very  creditable,  and  1  thank 
you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  afforded  me,"  he  said. 
"  Would  you  care  if  I  should  seat  myself  here  in  this  chair 
while  you  play,  and  look  at  you  ?  " 

The  girl  laughed  quietly  at  the  odd  request,  and  there 
was  a  look  of  mingled  confusion  and  pleasure  in  her  face 
as  she  replied,  — 

"  I  would  n't  care,  but  I  could  not  play  so  well." 

"  Then  I  will  go  back  to  the  pews;  I  don't  wish  to  inter 
fere  with  the  music.  If  you  don't  mind  it,  I  will  say  that 
I  think  you  are  very  frank  and  honest,  as  well  as  pretty 
and  accomplished.  Many  a  worse  player  than  you  are 
would  have  claimed  that  the  rare  combination  of  chords 
I  have  just  heard  was  improvising." 

"  It  is  my  greatest  fault,"  the  girl  answered,  "  to  let 
my  fancy  and  fingers  run  riot  over  the  keys,  without 
regard  to  the  instructions  in  the  book,  and  of  which  I  am 
so  much  in  need.  The  exercises  are  so  dull  that  it  is  a 


A   TROUBLED   FANCY.  55 

great  task  for  me  to  practise  them ;  but  I  never  tire  of 
recalling  what  I  have  learned  heretofore,  and  using  the 
chords  that  correspond  with  my  humor.  I  have  played  a 
great  deal,  lately,  with  The  Locks  in  my  mind,  for  I  have 
heard  much  of  you,  and  have  known  of  the  strange  house 
all  my  life.  Perhaps  I  was  thinking  of  you  when  you 
were  listening." 

"If  you  will  close  up  the  book,  and  think  about  me 
while  you  are  playing,  I  will  go  back  to  the  door,  and 
listen.  The  subject  is  not  very  romantic,  but  it  is  lonely 
enough,  Heaven  knows.  I  should  think  the  old  organ 
might  have  sympathy  with  me,  and  do  the  subject  justice, 
for  it  is  shut  up  from  day  to  day  in  a  great  stone  house, 
as  I  am." 

Allan  Dorris  went  back  by  the  door,  and  the  organ  was 
still  for  such  a  length  of  time  that  he  thought  it  very  cor 
rectly  represented  the  silence  that  hung  over  his  house 
like  a  pall ;  but  finally  there  was  the  thunder  of  the  double- 
bass,  and  the  music  began.  The  instrument  was  an  unu 
sually  good  one,  with  a  wide  range  of  effects  in  the  hands 
of  such  a  player  as  Annie  Benton  proved  to  be ;  and  Allan 
Dorris  thought  she  must  have  learned  his  history  some 
how,  and  was  now  telling  it  to  whoever  cared  to  listen. 
Dirges !  The  air  was  full  of  them,  with  processions  of 
mourning  men  and  women.  The  girl  seemed  to  have  a 
fondness  for  odd  airs,  played  in  imitation  of  the  lower  and 
middle  registers  of  the  voice,  with  treble  accompaniment, 
and  the  listener  almost  imagined  that  a  strong  baritone, 
the  voice  of  an  actor  in  a  play,  was  telling  in  plain  English 
why  Allan  Dorris,  the  occupant  of  The  Locks,  caine  to 
Davy's  Bend,  and  why  he  was  discontented  and  ill  at  ease. 

The  actor  with  the  baritone  voice,  after  telling  every- 

~  *i 

thing  he  knew,  gave  way  for  a  march-movement,  and  a 
company  of  actors,  representing  all  the  people  he  h:v1 


5G        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

ever  knowu,  appeared  before  him  under  the  magic  of  the 
music.  Some  of  them  looked  iu  wonder,  others  in  dread 
and  fear,  as  they  passed  him  in  procession  ;  but  the  march 
kept  them  going,  and  their  places  were  soon  taken  by 
others,  from  the  store  iu  his  memory,  who  looked  in 
wonder,  and  in  dread  and  fear,  at  the  strange  man  in  the 
back  pew,  though  lie  was  no  stranger  to  them.  Not  by 
any  means;  they  knew  him  very  well.  What  an  army! 
They  are  still  coming,  flinging  their  arms  to  the  time  of 
the  inarch ;  but  the  moment  they  arrive  they  look  toward 
the  back  pew,  and  continue  looking  that  way,  until  they 
disaj  pear ;  as  though  they  have  been  looking  for  him,  and 
are  surprised  at  his  presence  in  that  quiet  place.  Alter 
a  pause,  to  arrange  the  stops,  the  music  sounded  as  if  all 
those  who  had  appeared  were  trying  to  make  their  stories 
heard  at  once.  Their  haired,  their  dread,  their  fear,  —  all 
were  represented  in  the  chords  which  he  was  now  hearing, 
but  in  the  din  there  was  nothing  cheerful  or  joyous.  If 
any  of  the  actors  in  the  play  he  had  been  witnessing  knew 
anvthing  to  the  credit  of  Allan  Dorris,  their  voices  were 

•f  O 

so  mild  as  to  be  drowned  by  the  fiercer  ones  with  stories 
of  hate  and  fear  and  dread. 

The  music  at  last  died  away  with  the  double-bass,  as  it 
began,  and  the  player  sat  perfectly  still  after  she  had  fin 
ished  ;  nor  did  Dorris  move  from  his  position  for  several 
minutes. 

The  music  seemed  to  have  set  them  both  to  thinking, 
for  nothing  could  be  heard  for  a  long  tune  except  the 
working  of  the  bellows;  for  the  old  janitor  was  so  deaf 
thai  he  did  not  know  that  the  music  had  ceased. 

"What  have  you  heard  about  The  Locks?"  he  asked, 
after  he  stood  beside  the  girl,  feeling  as  though  there  was 
nothing  concerning  him  which  she  did  not  know ;  for  she 
had  expressed  it  all  in  the  music. 


A   TROUBLED   FANCY.  57 

"  Everything  about  The  Locks,  and  a  great  deal  about 
you,"  she  answered. 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  that  you  had  ever  heard  of  me.  Who 
talks  about  me?" 

"  The  people." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"  I  would  n't  care  to  tell  you  all  they  say,"  she  answered ; 
"for  in  a  dull  town,  like  this,  a  great  deal  is  said  when  a 
mysterious  man  arrives,  and  takes  up  his  residence  in  a 
house  that  has  been  regarded  with  superstitious  fear  for 
twenty  years." 

She  was  preparing  to  go  out  now,  and  he  respectfully 
followed  her  down  the  aisle. 

"  Whatever  they  say,"  he  said,  when  they  were  standing 
upon  the  outside,  "  there  was  a  great  deal  more  than  art 
in  the  piece  you  dedicated  to  me.  You  know,  somehow, 
that  I  am  lonely,  and  thoroughly  discontented.  Do  the 
people  say  that?" 

"  No." 

"Then  how  did  you  know  it?" 

"  I  saw  it  in  your  manner.     Anyone  could  see  that." 

"A  perfectly  contented  man  would  become  gloomy 
were  he  to  live  long  in  that  house,"  he  replied,  pointing  to 
The  Locks.  "  When  the  stillness  of  night  settles  upon  it 
there  never  was  a  scene  in  hell  which  cannot  be  imagined 
by  those  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  alone  in  it.  I  believe  the 
wind  blows  through  the  walls,  for  my  light  often  goes  out 
when  the  windows  and  doors  are  closed ;  and  there  is  one 
room  where  nil  the  people  I  have  ever  known  seem  col 
lected,  to  moan  through  the  night.  Did  you  ever  hear 
about  the  room  in  The  Locks  into  which  no  one  is  per 
mitted  to  look  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Even  the  new  owner  was  asked  to  give  a  promise  not 


58  THE  MYSTERY   OF   THE  LOCKS. 

to  disturb  that  room,  —  it  adjoins  the  one  I  occupy, —  or 
look  into  it,  or  inquire  with  reference  to  it ;  and  if  I  look 
ill  at  case,  it  must  be  because  of  the  house  I  occupy.  I 
am  sincerely  obliged  to  you  for  the  music.  May  I  listen 
to  you  when  you  practise  again  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered.  "  I  could  not  possibly  have 
an  objection." 

She  bowed  to  him,  and  walked  away,  followed  by  the 
limping  negro  janitor,  who  turned  occasionally  to  look  at 
Dorris  with  distrust. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
PICTUEES  IN  THE  FIRE. 

\  LLAN  DORRIS  was  seeing  pleasant  pictures  in  the 
-£j_  cheerful  fire  which  burned  in  his  room,  for  he 
watched  it  intently  from  early  evening  until  dusk,  and 
until  after  the  night  came  on. 

The  look  of  discontent  that  had  distinguished  his  face 
was  absent  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  occupied  the 
strange  old  hoiise.  Perhaps  a  cheerful  man  may  see  plea 
sant  pictures  in  a  fire  which  .produces  only  tragedies  for 
one  who  is  sad ;  for  it  is  certain  that  Allan  Dorris  had 
watched  the  same  fire  before,  and  cursed  its  pictures,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  excitement  afterward 
with  clenched  fists  and  a  wicked  countenance.  But  there 
was  peace  in  his  heart  now,  and  it  could  not  be  disturbed 
by  the  malicious  darkness  that  looked  in  at  his  windows ; 
for  the  nights  were  so  dark  in  Davy's  Bend  that  they 
seemed  not  an  invitation  to  rest,  but  an  invitation  to 
prowl,  and  lurk,  and  do  wicked  things. 

When  Mrs.  Wedge  brought  in  the  lamp,  and  put  it 
down  on  the  mantel,  he  did  not  look  up  to  say  a  cheerful 
word,  as  was  his  custom,  but  continued  gazing  into  the 
fire  ;  and  she  noticed  that  he  was  in  better  humor  than  he 
had  ever  been  before  during  their  acquaintance.  Usually 
his  thinking  made  him  frown,  but  to-night  he  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  it. 

The  worthy  woman  took  pleasure  in  finding  excuses  to 

59 


60  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

go  to  his  room  as  often  as  possible,  for  he  seemed  to  bless 
her  for  the  intrusion  upon  his  loneliness;  but  for  once  lie 
did  not  seem  to  realize  her  presence,  and  he  was  thinking 
more  intensely  than  usual. 

Mrs.  Wedge  had  come  to  greatly  admire  the  new  occu 
pant  of  The  Locks.  That  he  was  a  man  of  intelligence 
and  refinement  there  was  no  doubt;  she  believed  this  for 
so  many  reasons  that  she  never  pretended  to  enumerate 
them.  Besides  being  scrupulously  neat  in  his  habits,  which 
was  a  great  deal  in  the  orderly  woman's  eyes,  he  was  uni 
formly  polite  and  pleasant,  except  when  he  was  alone, 
when  he  seemed  to  storm  at  himself. 

There  was  a  certain  manly  way  about  him — a  disposi 
tion  to  be  just  to  everyone,  even  to  his  housekeeper  — 
that  won  her  heart;  and  she  had  lain  awake  a  great  many 
nights  since  he  had  come  to  The  Locks,  wondering  about 
him ;  for  he  had  never  dropped  the  slightest  hint  as  to 
where  he  came  from,  or  why  he  had  selected  Davy's  Bend 
as  a  place  of  residence. 

She  often  said  to  herself  that  a  bad  man  could  not 
laugh  as  cheerfully  as  Allan  Dorris  did  when  he  dropped 
in  at  her  little  house  to  spend  a  half-hour,  on  which  occa 
sions  he  talked  good-humoredly  of  matters  which  must 
have  seemed  trifling  to  one  of  his  line  intelligence :  and 

O  O  s 

she  was  certain  that  no  one  in  hiding  for  the  commission 
of  a  grave  offence  could  have  captured  the  affections  of 
Betty  as  completely  as  he  had  done,  for  the  child  always 
cried  when  he  returned  to  his  own  room,  or  went  out  at 
the  iron  gate  to  ramble  over  the  hills,  and  thought  of 
little  else  except  the  time  when  she  could  see  him  again. 

Mrs.  Wedge  had  heard  that  children  shrink  from  the 
touch  of  hands  that  have  engaged  in  violence  or  dishonor, 
and  watched  the  growing  friendship  between  the  two 
with  a  gfeat  deal  of  interest. 


PICTURES   IN  THE  FIRE.  61 

Mrs.  Wedge  believed  that  he  had  had  trouble  of  some 
kind  in  the  place  he  came  from,  and  that  he  was  trying  to 
hide  from  a  few  enemies,  and  a  great  many  friends,  in 
Davy's  Bend ;  for  Mrs.  Wedge  could  not  believe  that  any 
one  would  select  Davy's  Bend  as  a  place  of  residence  ex 
cept  under  peculiar  circumstances ;  but  she  always  came 
to  the  same  conclusion, — that  Allan  Dorris  was  in  the 
right,  whatever  his  difficulty  had  been.  She  watched  him 
narrowly  from  day  to  day,  but  he  never  gave  her  reason 
to  change  her  mind  —  he  was  in  the  right,  and  in  the 
goodness  of  her  heart  she  defended  him,  as  she  went  about 
her  work. 

"  Were  it  Betty's  father  come  back  to  me,  instead  of  a 
stranger  of  whom  I  know  nothing,"  the  good  woman 
would  say  aloud,  as  she  swept,  or  dusted,  or  scoured  in  her 
little  house,  "  I  could  not  find  less  fault  Avith  him  than  I 
do,  or  be  more  fond  of  him.  I  know  something  about 
men,  and  Allan  Dorris  is  a  gentleman ;  more  than  that, 
he  is  honest,  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say." 

"  Grandmother,"  the  child  would  inquire  in  wonder, 
"  who  are  you  talking  to  ?  " 

"  Oh,  these  people's  tongues,"  Mrs.  Wedge  would  reply, 
with  great  earnestness,  looking  at  Betty  as  though  she 
were  a  guilty  tongue  which  had  just  been  caught  in  the 
act  of  slandering  worthy  people.  "I  have  no  patience 
with  them.  Even  Mr.  Dorris  is  not  free  from  their  slan 
der,  and  I  am  tired  of  it." 

"But  who  says  anything  against  Mr.  Dorris,  grand 
mother?" 

Sure  enough!  Who  had  accused  him?  No  one,  save 
his  friend  Mrs.  Wedge,  unless  his  coming  to  Davy's  Bend 
was  an  accusation ;  but  she  continued  to  defend  him,  and 
declared  before  she  went  to  sleep  every  night:  "I'll 
think  no  more  about  it ;  he  is  a  worthy  man,  of  course." 


62        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

But  whatever  occupied  his  thoughts  on  the  evening  in 
question,  Allan  Dorris  was  not  displeased  to  hear  an  an 
nouncement,  from  the  speaking-tube  behind  the  door,  of 
visitors,  for  they  were  uncommon  enough ;  and  going  to 
it,  a  voice  came  to  him  from  the  depths  announcing  that 
Silas  and  Tug  were  at  the  gate,  and  would  come  up  if  he 
had  no  objection.  Pulling  the  lever  down,  which  opened 
the  gate,  he  went  down  to  admit  them  at  the  door,  and 
they  came  back  with  him. 

During  his  residence  in  the  place  he  had  met  the  two 
men  frequently,  for  they  took  credit  to  themselves  that  he 
was  there  at  all,  since  his  coming  seemed  to  please  the 
people  (for  it  gave  them  something  to  talk  about,  even 
if  they  did  not  admire  him)  ;  and  when  he  returned  to  his 
house  in  the  evening,  he  often  met  the  strange  pair  loiter 
ing  about  the  gate.  He  had  come  to  think  well  of  them, 
and  frequently  invited  them  to  walk  in ;  but  though  they 
apparently  wanted  to  accept  his  invitation,  they  acted  as 
though  they  were  afraid  to :  perhaps  they  feared  he  would 
lose  the  little  respect  he  already  entertained  for  them  on 
acquaintance.  But  they  had  evidently  concluded  to 
make  him  a  formal  call  now,  induced  by  friendliness  and 
curiosity,  for  they  were  smartened  up  a  little ;  and  it  had 
evidently  been  arranged  that  Silas  should  do  the  honors, 
for  Tug  kept  crowding  him  to  the  front  as  they  walked  up 
the  stairs. 

Apparently  Tug  did  not  expect  a  very  warm  reception 
at  The  Locks,  for  he  lagged  behind,  and  sighted  at  Allan 
Dorris  with  his  peculiar  eyes,  as  though  he  had  half  a 
mind  to  try  a  shot  at  him ;  and  when  he  reached  the  land 
ing  from  the  level  of  which  the  doors  opened  into  the 
rooms  of  the  second  story,  he  looked  eagerly  and  curiously 
around,  as  if  recalling  the  night  when  he  traced  the 
shadow  there,  but  which  had  escaped  him. 


PICTURES   IN   THE   FIRE.  63 

Allan  Dorris  invited  both  men  into  the  apartment  he 
usually  occupied,  and  there  was  a  freedom  in  his  manner 
that  surprised  them  both.  The  pair  had  decided  to  visit 
him  from  a  curiosity  that  had  grown  out  of  their  expe 
rience  with  the  shadow ;  and  although  they  expected  to 
find  him  stern  and  silent,  and  angered  at  their  presence, 
he  was  really  in  good  humor,  and  seemed  glad  to  see 
them ;  perhaps  he  was  so  lonely  that  he  would  have  wel 
comed  a  visit  from  a  ghost. .  They  both  noticed  that  the 
ragged  beard  which  he  had  worn  on  his  face  when  he 
first  arrived  was  now  absent;  for  he  was  clean  shaven, 
and  this  made  him  appear  ten  years  younger.  He  looked 
a  good  deal  more  like  a  man  in  every  way  than  he  did  on 
the  night  of  his  arrival,  when  he  sat  moping  in  the  hotel 
office  ;  and  Silas  and  Tug  both  wondered  at  the  change, 
but  they  Were  of  one  mind  as  to  his  clean  face  ;  it  was  a 
disguise. 

Tug's  suit  of  black  glistened  more  than  ever,  from  hav 
ing  been  recently  brushed  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  seated 
himself,  he  set  about  watching  Allan  Dorris  with  great 
persistency,  staring  him  in  the  face  precisely  as  he  would 
look  at  a  picture  or  an  ornament.  Silas  seated  himself 
some  distance  from  the  fire,  and  seemed  greatly  dis 
tressed  at  his  friend's  rudeness. 

"  I  like  you,"  Mr.  Whittle  said  finally,  without  moving 
his  aim  from  Dorris's  face. 

Dorris  seemed  amused,  and,  laughing  quietly,  was 
about  to  reply,  when  Tug  interrupted  him. 

"  I  know  you  don't  like  me,  and  I  admire  you  for  it,  for 
every  decent  man  despises  me.  I  am  not  only  the  meanest 
man  in  the  world,  but  the  most  worthless,  and  the  ugliest. 
My  teeth  are  snags,  and  my  eyes  are  bad,  and  my  breath 
is  sour,  and  I  am  lazy ;  but  I  like  you,  and  I  tell  you  of 
it  to  your  teeth." 


64  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Tug  said  this  with  so  much  seriousness  that  his  com 
panions  both  laughed ;  but  if  he  understood  the  cause  of 
their  merriment,  he  pretended  not  to,  for  lie  said,  — 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  glaiing  fiercely  from  one 
to  the  other.  "  I  am  not  trying  to  be  funny.  I  hate  a 
funny  man,  or  a  joky  man.  I  have  nothing  for  a  funny 
man  but  poison,  and  I  have  it  with  me." 

Dorris  paid  no  more  attention  to  his  fierce  companion 
than  he  would  to  a  growling  dog,  and  continued  laughing ; 
but  Silas  shut  up  like  a  knife,  as  Tug  took  from  his  vest 
pocket  a  package  carefully  wrapped  in  newspaper,  and 
after  looking  at  it  a  moment  with  close  scrutiny,  con 
tinued,  — 

"Whenever  you  find  me  telling  jokes,  expect  me  to 
giggle  at  my  own  wit,  and  then  pour  the  contents  of  this 
package  on  my  tongue,  and  swallow  it ;  and  it  will  be  no 
more  than  I  deserve.  I  have  but  one  virtue ;  I  am  not 
funny.  You  have  no  idea  how  I  hate  the  low  persons 
who  advertise  themselves  as  comedians,  or  comediennes, 
or  serio-comic  singers,  or  you  would  not  accuse  me  of 
it." 

Silas  had  often  seen  this  package  before,  for  Tug  liad 
earned  it  ever  since  they  had  been  acquainted,  frequently 
finding  it  necessary  to  renew  the  paper  in  which  it  was 
wrapped.  From  certain  mysterious  references  to  it 
Tug  had  dropped,  Silas  believed  the  powder  was  in 
tended  for  a  relative  more  objectionable  than  any  of  the 
others,  though  he  occasionally  threatened  to  use  it  in  a 
different  manner,  as  in  the  present  instance.  Indeed,  he 
seemed  to  carry  it  instead  of  a  knife  or  a  pistol;  and 
Silas  had  noticed  on  the  night  when  they  were  following 
the  shadow  that  his  companion  earned  the  package  in  his 
hand,  ready  for  instant  use. 

"  You  are  the  kind  of  a  man  I  intended  to  be,"  Tug 


PICTUEES    IN   THE  FIKE.  65 

continued,  putting  away  his  dangerous  package  with  the 
air  of  a  desperado  who  had  been  flourishing  a  pistol  and 
took  credit  to  himself  for  not  using  it.  "  I  might  have 
been  worthy  of  your  friendship  but  for  my  wife's  rela 
tions,  but  I  admire  you  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  Do 
your  worst ;  I  am  your  friend." 

Tug  had  not  taken  his  huge  eye  from  Dorris's  face 
since  entering,  except  to  look  at  the  poison ;  but  he  re 
moved  it  as  Mrs.  Wedge  came  in  to  prepare  the  table  for 
the  evening  meal. 

Dorris  was  a  good  deal  like  Tug  in  the  particular  that 
he  did  not  sleep  much  .at  night,  but  he  slept  soundly  when 
the  morning  light  came  up  over  the  woods  to  chase  away 
the  shadows  which  were  always  looking  into  his  window ; 
therefore  he  frequently  ate  his  breakfast  at  noon,  and  his 
supper  at  midnight. 

There  was  a  roast  of  beef,  a  tea  urn,  a  pat  of  butter, 
and  a  loaf  of  bread,  on  the  platter  carried  by  the  house 
keeper,  while  Betty  followed  with  the  cups  and  saucers, 
and  the  potatoes,  the  napkins,  and  the  sugar. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  good  opinion,"  Dorris 
said,  while  the  cloth  was  being  laid,  "  and  if  you  will 
remain  to  supper  with  me,  we  will  become  better  ac 
quainted." 

It  occurred  to  Silas  that  Dorris  looked  at  Tug,  .in  spite 
of  his  politeness,  as  he  might  look  at  an  amusing  dog  that 
had  been  taught  to  catch  a  bacon  rind  from  off  his  nose 
at  the  word  of  command,  and  wondered  that  Tusr  felt  so 

'  O 

much  at  home  as  he  seemed  to  :  for  he  was  watchin^1  the 

7  O 

arrangements  for  supper  with  great  eagerness.  Silas  was 
sure  the  invitation  to  supper  would  be  accepted,  too,  for 
Tug  had  never  refused  an-  invitation  of  any  kind  in  his 
life,  except  invitations  to  be  a  man  and  go  to  work,  which 
the  people  were  always  giving  him. 


66        THE  MYSTEEY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

At  a  look  from  Dorris,  Mrs.  Wedge  went  out,  and 
soon  returned  with  additional  plates,  besides  other  eat 
ables  that  seemed  to  be  held  in  reserve ;  and  during  her 
absence  the  master  had  been  placing  the  chairs,  so 
that  by  the  time  the  table  was  arranged,  the  three  men 
were  ready  to  sit  down,  which  they  did  without  further 
ceremony.  Among  other  things  Mrs.  Wedge  brought  in 
a  number  of  bottles  and  glasses,  which  were  put  down  by 
the  side  of  Dorris,  and  these  now  attracted  the  aim  of 
Tug. 

"  If  you  offer  us  drink,"  he  said,  "  I  give  you  fair 
warning  that  we  will  accept,  and  get  drunk,  and  disgrace 
you.  We  haven't  a  particle  of  decency,  have  we,  you 
scoundrel  ?  " 

This,  accompanied  by  a  prodigious  poke  in  the  ribs,  was 
addressed  to  Silas  Davy,  who  had  been  sitting  meekly 
by,  watching  the  proceedings.  Tug  had  a  habit  of  ad 
dressing  Silas  as  "his  dear  old  scoundrel,"  and  "his 
precious  cut-throat,"  although  a  milder  man  never  lived ; 
and  he  intently  watched  Dorris  as  he  opened  one  of  the 
bottles  and  filled  three  of  the  glasses.  Two  of  them 
were  placed  before  Tug  and  Silas,  and  though  Silas  only 
sipped  at  his,  Tug  drank  off  the  liquor  apportioned  to 
him  greedily.  This  followed  in  rapid  succession,  until 
two  of  the  bottles  had  been  emptied,  Dorris  watching  the 
proceedings  with  a  queer  satisfaction. 

He  also  helped  them  liberally  to  the  roast  beef  and  the 
gravy,  and  the  potatoes,  and  the  bread  and  butter,  to  say 
nothing  ef  the  pickles  and  olives;  but  Tug  seemed  to 
prefer  the  liquor  to  the  tea,  for  he  pr.rtook  of  that  very 
sparingly,  though  he  was  anxious  to  accept  everything 
else  offered ;  for  he  occasionally  got  up  from  the  table  to 
tramp  heavily  around  the  room,  as  if  to  settle  that  already 
eaten  to  make  room  for  more. 


PICTURES   IN   THE  FIRE.  67 

Allan  Dorris  enjoyed  the  presence  of  the  two  men,  and 
encouraged  the  oddities  of  each  by  plying  them  with 
spirits.  Although  the  drink  had  little  effect  on  Silas, 
who  was  very  temperate,  Tug  paid  tribute  to  its  strength 
by  opening  his  wide  eye  to  its  greatest  extent,  as  if  in 
wonder  at  his  hospitable  reception,  and  closing  the  other 
tighter,  like  a  man  who  had  concluded  to  give  one  side  of 
his  body  a  rest. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  and  the  liquor  circulated 
more  freely  through  his  blood,  Tug  recited,  between  fre 
quent  snorts,  what  a  man  he  had  been  until  he  had  been 
broken  up  and  disgraced  by  his  wife's  relations,  Silas  ear 
nestly  vouching  for  it  all,  besides  declaring  that  it  was  a 
shame,  to  which  their  host  replied  with  enthusiasm  that  it 
was  an  outrage  that  such  a  bright  man  and  such  a  good- 
looking  man  as  Tug  had  been  treated  so  unjustly,  at  the 
same  time  filling  up  the  glasses,  and  proposing  that  they 
drink  to  the  confusion  and  disgrace  of  the  relations. 
Neither  of  them  seemed  to  realize  that  Dorris  was  making 
game  of  them ;  for  Tug  listened  to  all  he  said  —  and  he  said 
a  great  deal  —  with  an  injured  air  that  was  extremely  ludi 
crous  ;  and  when  Davy  i-elated  that  when  Mr.  Whittle  was 
in  practice,  the  judges  begged  the  favor  of  his  opinion 
before  rendering  their  decisions  on  difficult  legal  ques 
tions,  Dorris  regretted  that  he  had  not  known  the 
judges,  for  he  felt  sure  that  they  were  wise  and  agreeable 
gentlemen.  But  at  the  same  time  Dorris  felt  certain  that 
if  he  should  be  invited  to  attend  the  man's  funeral,  he 
would  laugh  to  himself  upon  thinking  how  absurdly 
dignified  he  must  look  in  his  coffin. 

Silas  had  never  known  Tug  when  he  was  great,  of 

O  O  ' 

course,  for  he  had  flourished  in  the  time  of  Silas's  father ; 
but  he  nevertheless  believed  it,  and  seemed  to  have 
personal  knowledge  of  the  former  magnificence  of  the 


68        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

rusty  old  lawyer.  Indeed,  but  few  of  the  present  inhabi 
tants  of  Davy's  Bend  had  known  Tug  when  he  was  clean 
and  respectable,  for  he  always  claimed  that  his  triumphs 
were  triumphs  of  the  old  days,  when  Davy's  Bend  was 
important  and  prosperous,  and  among  the  energetic  citi 
zens  who  had  moved  away  and  made  decay  possible. 

"I  don't  amount  to  anything  except  when  I  am  drunk  — 
now,"  Tug  said,  getting  on  his  feet,  and  taking  aim  at 
his  host,  "  but  fill  me  with  aristocratic  liquor,  and  I  am  as 
cute  as  the  best  of  them.  Have  you  ever  heard  the  story 
of  the  beggar  on  horseback  ?  Well,  here  he  is,  at  your 
service.  Will  the  rich  and  aristocratic  owner  of  this 
house  oblige  the  beggar  by  pouring  out  his  dram?  Ha! 
the  beggar  is  at  full  gallop." 

Dorris  good-naturedly  obeyed  the  request,  and  while 
Tug  was  on  his  feet,  his  aim  happened  to  strike  Silas. 

"Silas,  you  greatest  of  scoundrels,"  he  said,  "you 
thoroughly  debased  villain,  loafer,  and  liar,  I  love  you." 

Reaching  across  the  table,  Tug  cordially  shook  hands 
with  his  friend,  who  had  been  doing  nothing  up  to  that 
time  save  enjoying  Tug's  humor,  and  indorsing  whatever 
he  said.  Whether  Silas  enjoyed  being  called  a  scoundrel, 
a  villain,  a  loafer,  and  a  liar,  is  not  known,  but  he  cer 
tainly  heard  these  expressions  very  frequently ;  for  Tug 
seemed  to  tolerate  him  only  because  of  his  total  and  thor 
ough  depravity,  though  the  other  acquaintances  of  Silas 
regarded  him  as  a  mild-mannered  little  man  without 
either  vices  or  virtues. 

"  I  have  but  two  friends,"  Tug  said  again,  seating  him 
self,  and  gazing  stiffly  at  his  host,  "  Rum  and  Davy ;  rum 
cheers  me  when  I'm  sad,  and  Davy  feeds  me  when  I'm 
hungry,  though  the  splendid  thief  does  not  feed  me  as 
well  as  he  might  were  he  more  industrious.  Rum  has  a 
bad  reputation,  but  I  announce  here  that  it  is  one  of  my 


PICTURES   IN  THE  FLRE.  69 

friends.  I  am  either  ravenously  hungry,  or  uncomiort- 
able  from  having  eaten  too  much,  all  the  time,  so  that  I 
do  not  get  much  comfort  from  victuals ;  but  rum  hits  me 
just  right,  and  I  love  it.  You  say  it  will  make  me  drunk. 
Very  well ;  I  want  to  get  drunk.  If  you  argue  that  it 
will  make  me  reckless,  I  will  hotly  reply  that  I  want  to  be 
reckless,  and  that  a  few  bottles  will  make  me  as  famous 
as  a  lifetime  of  work  and  success  will  make  a  sober  man. 
Therefore  I  hail  rum  as  my  best  friend,  next  to  the  un 
scrupulous  rascal  known  for  hailing  purposes,  when  there 
are  boots  to  be  polished,  or  errands  to  run,  as  Hup-avy." 

The  eminent  legal  mind  hurriedly  put  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  as  though  thoroughly  humiliated  that  he  had  hic 
coughed,  and,  looking  at  Dorris  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
commits  an  unpardonable  indiscretion  and  hopes  that  it 
has  not  been  noticed,  continued  with  more  care,  with  a 
great  many  periods  to  enable  him  to  guard  against  future 
weakness. 

"  Although  I  have  but  two  friends,  I  have  a  host  of 
enemies.  Among  them  Tigley.  My  wife's  cousin.  When 
I  Avas  a  reputable  lawyer,  Tigley  appeared  in  Davy's  Bend. 
Tigley  was  a  fiddler.  And  spent  his  time  in  playing  in 
the  beer  halls  for  the  drinks.  The  late  Mrs.  Whittle 
believed  him  to  be  a  great  man.  She  called  him  a 
mastero,  though  he  played  entirely  by  ear ;  and  excused 
his  dissipation  on  the  ground  that  it  was  an  eccentricity 
common  to  genius.  If  Tigley  ever  comes  in  my  way 
again  there  will  be  something  to  pay  more  disagreeable 
than  gold.  He  taught  me  to  like  rum." 

Silas,  who  acted  as  a  kind  of  chorus,  intimated  to  Dorris 
that  his  friend  referred  to  a  word  of  four  letters  beginning 

o  o 

with  an  "  h,'''  and  ending  with  an  "  1." 

"  That 's  one  reason  why  I  am  a  drunkard,"  the  victim 
of  too  many  relatives  added,  after  a  moment's  thought. 


70  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE   LOCKS. 

"  The  other  is  that  I  could  never  talk  up  to  the  old  womern 
except  when  I  was  drunk,  and  it  was  necessary  to  talk 
up  to  her  so  often  that  I  finally  craved  spirits." 

Tug  crooked  his  elbow  and  produced  the  package  from 
his  vest  pocket,  which  he  waved  aloft  as  an  intimation  that 
Tigley's  nose  should  be  held,  when  next  they  met,  until 
he  swallowed  its  contents. 

"  By-the-way,"  Tug  said,  as  if  something  new  had 
occurred  to  him,  "  I  warn  you  not  to  believe  anything  I 
say ;  I  lie  because  I  enjoy  it.  Drinking  whiskey,  and 
lying,  and  loving  Davy,  are  my  only  recreations.  Then 
there  was  Veazy  Vaughn,  the  Vagrant  —  my  wife's  uncle 
—  he  is  responsible  for  my  idleness.  When  he  came  here, 
twenty  odd  years  ago,  I  tried  to  reclaim  him,  and  went 
around  with  him ;  but  he  enjoyed  vagrancy  so  much,  and 
defended  his  position  so  well,  that  I  took  a  taste  of  it 
myself.  I  liked  it.  I  have  followed  it  ever  since." 

There  was  not  the  slightest  animation  about  Tug,  and 
he  sat  bolt  upright  like  a  post  while  he  talked  with  slow 
and  measured  accent,  to  avoid  another  hiccough,  and  his 
great  eye  was  usually  as  motionless  as  his  body. 

"  The  late  Mrs.  Whittle  treated  her  relatives  so  well 
that  other  worthless  people  who  were  no  kin  to  her 
began  to  appear  finally,  and  claim  to  be  her  cousins  and 
nieces  and  nephews,"  Tug  said.  "And  she  used  my 
substance  to  get  up  good  dinners  for  them.  They  came 
by  railroad.  By  wagon.  On  foot.  And  on  horseback. 
I  was  worse  than  a  Mormon,  for  I  married  a  thousand,  at 
least,  on  my  wedding-day.  Some  of  them  called  me 
'  Uncle  W,'  while  others  spoke  of  me  as  their  '  Dear 
Cousin  T;'  but  when  the  last  dollar  of  my  money  was 
invested  in  dried  beef,  and  the  relatives  had  eaten  it,  I 
protested,  and  then  they  turned  me  out.  The  relations 
have  my  money,  and  I  have  their  bad  habits.  I  have 


PICTURES   IN   THE  FIRE.  71 

nothing  left  but  the  poison,  and  they  are  welcome  to 
that." 

He  once  more  produced  the  package,  and  as  he  laid  it  on 
the  table,  Dorris  half  expected  to  see  a  troop  of  ill-favored 
people  come  dashing  in,  grab  up  the  paper,  and  run  away 
with  it.  But  none  of  them  came,  and  Tug  went  on : 

"  I  was  a  polite  man  until  my  Avife's  relations  made  me 
selfish.  We  always  had  gravy  when  they  were  around, 
and  good  gravy  at  that ;  but  by  the  time  I  had  helped 
them  all,  there  was  none  left  for  me.  1  now  help  myself 
first.  Will  the  Prince  pass  the  Pauper  the  fresh  bottle  of 
rum?" 

The  bottle  was  handed  over,  and  the  rare  old  scoundrel 
helped  himself  to  a  full  glass  of  its  contents,  drinking  as 
deliberately  as  he  had  talked,  apparently  taking  nine  big 
swallows  without  breathing,  at  the  same  time  thinking  of 
the  one  he  loved  the  best,  as  a  means  of  curing  the 
hiccoughs. 

"  I  like  Mrs.  Wedge,"  Tug  said,  looking  at  that  excel 
lent  woman  with  a  tipsy  grin,  as  she  came  into  the  room 
with  some  new  delicacy  for  her  employer's  guests.  "  She 
looks  so  common,  somehow,  and  I  don't  believe  she  knows 
any  more  about  manners  than  I  do.  Whenever  you  see 
her  eating  her  dinner,  you  '11  find  that  she  puts  her  arms 
on  the  table,  as  I  do,  though  it's  not  polite.  Polite 
things  are  not  natural,  in  my  opinion ;  mind  I  don't  assert 
it  as  positive.  I  hate  cold  watei',  but  it 's  polite  to  bathe  ; 
and  your  respectable  shirt-collars  rub  all  the  hide  off  my 
neck.  And  anything  that 's  good  for  me,  I  don't  like. 
There 's  oatmeal,  and  graham  grits,  and  such  like  —  they 
are  healthy,  therefore  I  don't  like  their  taste ;  but  give  me 
milk  gravy,  or  salt  risin'  bread,  or  fried  beef,  or  any 
thing  else  that's  not  good  for  me,  and  you'll  find  me 
at  home,  as  the  man  who  had  the  party  said  on  iis  cards." 


72  THE   MYSTERY   OF   THE   LOCKS. 

During  this  discourse  Mr.  Whittle's  great  eye  was 
following  Mrs.  Wedge  about  the  room,  but  when  she 
disappeared  it  lit  on  Dorris. 

"I'm  with  the  crowd,  though,  when  it  comes  to  my 
wife's  kin,"  he  said,  eyeing  his  host  in  an  impudent 
way.  "  A  good  many  don't  say  so ;  but  it  makes  them 
all  hot  to  fill  their  houses  with  their  relations.  Whenever 
you  go  to  see  your  relations,  depend  upon  it  that  they  are 
glad  when  you  are  gone.  They  may  pretend  to  like  you, 
but  they  don't,  except  when  you  are  away  from  them. 
But  in  all  other  respects  I  'm  common.  Common !  I  'm 
so  common  that  I  like  boiled  cabbage;  and  the  olives 
you  blow  about  —  I  'd  as  soon  eat  green  pignuts  soaked 
in  brine.  Common  !  "  He  yelled  out  the  words  as  though 
he  were  calling  some  one  of  that  name  in  the  cellar. 
"If  men  were  judged  by  their  commonness,  I  would 
be  a  chief  with  plumes  in  my  hat." 

Allan  Dorris  and  Silas  Davy  were  seated  with  their 
backs  to  the  windows  overlooking  the  town,  while  Tug 
sat  opposite  them,  and  in  transferring  his  gaze  from  one 
to  the  other,  in  dignified  preparation  for  resuming  his 
conversation,  which  both  his  companions  were  enjoying, 
he  saw  the  mysterious  face  he  had  seen  once  before 
peering  into  the  room,  and  which  was  hastily  withdrawn. 

Tug  jumped  up  from  his  chair  at  sight  of  it,  and  hurried 
to  the  window  with  such  haste  that  the  table  was  almost 
upset ;  but  the  face,  as  well  as  the  figure  to  which  it 
belonged,  had  disappeared.  Tin-owing  up  the  sash,  Tug 
found  that  he  could  step  out  on  to  a  porch,  and  from  this 
he  dropped  into  the  yard  with  a  great  crash  through  the 
vines  and  lattice-work.  Silas  Davy  quickly  followed,  by 
way  of  the  stairs,  suspecting  the  cause  of  Tug's  disappear 
ance  ;  and  Dorris  was  left  alone. 

All  this  had  occupied  but  a  few  moments,  and  he  prob- 


PICTURES   IN   THE  FIRE.  73 

ably  thought  of  the  circumstance  as  one  of  the  many 
eccentricities  of  the  two  odd  men  ;  for  after  pulling  down 
the  lever  to  close  the  gate  (it  is  a  wonder  that  he  was  not 
surprised  to  find  it  open)  he  sat  down  before  the  fire  and 
engaged  in  the  pleasant  thoughts  that  were  interrupted 
early  in  the  evening. 

Silas  did  not  come  up  with  Tug  until  he  reached  the 
vicinity  of  the  hotel,  where  a  single  street  lamp  burned  all 
night,  and  while  they  were  hurrying  along  without 
speaking,  the  figure  they  were  pursuing  passed  quickly  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street  from  the  hotel.  The  rays 
of  the  lamp  were  so  feeble  that  the  figure  was  only  a 
shadow ;  but  they  easily  recognized  it  as  the  one  seen  be 
fore —  that  of  a  man  above  the  medium  height,  enveloped 
in  a  long  cloak,  not  unlike  those  worn  by  women  in  wet 
weather,  with  a  slouch  hat  pulled  down  over  his  face. 

The  two  men  humed  after  it,  but  in  the  darkness  they 
were  frequently  compelled  to  stop  and  listen  for  the  foot 
steps  of  the  pursued,  in  order  to  detect  his  course.  Each 
time  the  echoes  were  more  indistinct,  for  the  fellow  was 
making  good  use  of  his  legs;  and  in  this  manner  they 
traced  his  course  to  the  river  bank,  near  the  ferry  landing, 
where  the  ferry-boat  itself  was  tied  up  for  the  night.  They 
concluded  that  the  fugitive  had  a  skiff  tied  there  some 
where,  which  he  intended  to  use  in  leaving  the  place,  and, 
hurrying  on  board  the  ferry-boat,  they  rapped  loudly  at  the 
door  of  the  little  room  on  the  upper  deck  where  the  crew 
usually  slept,  with  a  view  of  procuring  means  of  following. 

The  fellow  who  had  charge  of  the  ferry,  a  native  of  the 
lowlands  lying  along  the  river,  was  known  as  "Young 

«/        ~  o  o 

Bill  Young,"  although  he  greatly  desired  that  the  people 
call  him  "  Old  Captain  Young ; "  therefore  both  men 
pounded  vigorously  on  the  door,  and  loudly  called  "  Cap- 


74  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

tain  Young,"  as  a  tribute  to  his  vanity.  "Captain 
Young"  soon  appeared,  for  he  always  slept  in  a  bunk 
with  his  clothes  on,  which  he  said  reminded  him  of  his 
sea  days,  although  he  had  never  really  seen  any  other 
water  than  that  on  which  he  operated  his  ferry.  As  the 
two  hurriedly  explained  to  him  that  they  wanted  a  boat, 
Young  Bill  Young  went  to  the  lower  deck,  and  unlocked 
one  that  floated  at  the  stern,  and  soon  Tug  and  his  friend 
were  pulling  down  the  river  with  long  strokes,  for  there 
were  two  pairs  of  oars.  Occasionally  they  stopped  row 
ing  to  listen,  but  nothing  could  be  heard  save  the  gentle 
ripple  of  the  current ;  whereupon  they  worked  with  greater 
vigor  than  before. 

They  had  rowed  in  this  manner  for  an  hour  or  more, 
when,  stopping  to  listen  again,  the  plash  of  oars  was 
indistinctly  heard  on  the  water  ahead  of  them.  Lying 
down  in  the  prow  of  the  boat,  Tug  could  see  the  boat 
and  its  occupants  low  down  on  the  water,  between  him 
and  the  first  rays  of  light  of  the  coming  morning.  There 
was  a  heavy  fog  on  the  river,  which  was  lying  close  to 
the  water,  but  this  had  lifted  sufficiently  to  permit  an 
inspection  through  the  rising  mist.  There  were  two 
figures  in  the  boat ;  one  rowing,  who  was  evidently  the 
man  they  had  twice  seen  looking  in  at  them,  and  the 
other  a  much  smaller  person,  who  was  seated  in  the  stern, 
and  steering.  This  fact  Tug  regarded  as  so  remarkable 
that  he  told  Davy  to  lie  down,  and  take  a  look,  and  when 
Davy  returned  to  his  oars,  after  a  long  inspection,  he 
said :  — 

"  I  make  out  two." 

"  A  big  one  and  a  little  one,"  Tug  replied,  bending  to 
the  oars,  and  causing  the  boat  to  hurry  through  the  water. 
"  Earn  your  supper  up  at  The  Locks,  and  I  '11  introduce 
you  to  them." 


PICTURES   IN   THE   FIRE.  75 

On  the  left  hand  a  smaller  stream  put  into  the  main 
river,  and  at  its  mouth  there  was  anammense  growth  of 
willoAvs,  besides  a  chute,  an  island,  and  a  bend.  Into 
this  labyrinth  the  boat  they  were  pursuing  effectually 
disappeared ;  for  though  Tug  and  Silas  rowed  about 
until  broad  daylight  they  could  find  no  trace  of  it  or  its 
occupants. 

A  short  distance  up  the  smaller  stream  was  a  lonely 
station  on  a  railroad  that  did  not  run  into  Davy's  Bend, 
and  while  rowing  around  in  the  river,  the  roar  of  an 
approaching  train  was  heard,  and  the  fact  that  this 
stopped  at  the  station,  with  a  blast  from  the  engine- 
whistle  indicating  that  it  had  been  signalled,  may  have 
been  important ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  either  Silas  or 
Tug,  who  pulled  their  boat  back  to  town  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  LOCKS'  GHOST. 

f  I  ^HERE  was  general  curiosity  in  Davy's  Bend  with 
J-  reference  to  the  new  occupant  of  The  Locks,  and 
when  the  people  had  exhausted  themselves  in  denouncing 
their  own  town  more  than  it  deserved,  and  in  praising 
Ben's  City  more  than  it  deserved,  they  began  on  Allan 
Dorris,  and  made  him  the  subject  of  their  gossip. 

Whoever  was  bold  enough  to  invent  new  theories  with 
reference  to  him,  and  express  them,  was  sure  of  a  wel 
come  at  any  of  the  houses  where  the  speculation  concern 
ing  his  previous  history  went  on  from  day  to  day ;  and, 
this  becoming  generally  known,  there  was  no  lack  of 
fresh  material  for  idle  tongues.  Whenever  he  walked 
into  the  town,  he  knew  that  the  stores  turned  out  their 
crowds  to  look  at  him,  and  that  in  passing  the  residences 
which  were  occupied,  the  windows  were  filled  with 
curious  eyes.  But  although  there  were  a  hundred  theories 
with  refei-ence  to  him,  it  was  only  positively  known  that 
he  one  day  appeared  at  his  gate,  two  months  after  his 
arrival,  and  tacked  up  a  little  sign  on  which  was  inscribed 
in  gold  letters : 


DR.    DORRIS. 


This  curiosity  of  the  people  brought  Dr.  Dorris  a  great 
deal  of  business,  for  many  of  them  were  willing  to  pay  for 
76 


THE  LOCKS'   GHOST.  77 

the  privilege  of  seeing  him,  and  he  applied  himself  to 
practice  with  such  energy  that  he  was  soon  in  general 
demand.  As  the  people  knew  more  of  him,  their  curiosity 
became  admiration ;  and  many  of  them  defended  him  from 
imaginary  charges  as  warmly  as  did  Mrs.  Wedge,  for 
there  was  every  reason  that  the  people  should  admire 
him,  except  that  he  had  located  at  Davy's  Bend. 

That  he  was  skilful  and  experienced  as  a  physician 
became  apparent  at  once,  and  it  was  therefore  generally 
believed  that  he  was  only  there  temporarily ;  for  certainly 
no  one  who  was  really  capable  would  consent  to  remain 
long  in  Davy's  Bend. 

His  heart  was"  not  in  his  work ;  this  was  a  part  of  the 
gossip  concerning  him,  though  it  is  difficult  to  imagine 
how  the  idea  originated ;  for  he  appeared  to  be  pleased 
when  he  was  called  out  at  night,  as  though  the  compan 
ionship  of  even  those  in  distress  suited  him  better  than 
the  solitude  of  his  own  house;  but  though  he  was  always 
trving  to  be  cheerful,  he  could  not  disguise  the  fact  that 

•*  O  O 

his  mind  was  busy  with  matters  outside  of  his  work. 
Perhaps  this  was  the  excuse  of  the  people  for  saying  that 
his  heart  was  not  in  his  work,  and  the  charge  may  have 
been  true.  While  busy,  he  gave  whatever  was  in  hand 
careful  and  intelligent  attention,  but  as  soon  as  he  was 
idle  again,  he  forgot  his  surroundings,  and  permitted  his 
mind  to  wander  —  nobody  knew  where.  When  addressed, 
he  good-naturedly  remembered  that  he  was  in  Davy's 
Bend,  and  at  the  service  of  its  people,  and  did  whatever 
was  expected  of  him  with  so  much  gentleness  and  ability 
that  he  won  all  hearts.  This  was  his  brief  history  during 
the  summer  following  his  arrival,  except  as  shall  be  re 
lated  hereafter. 

The  sun,  which  had  been  struggling  for  mastery  over 
the  mist  and  the  fog,  had  triumphed  after  a  fashion,  and  the 


78        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

pleasanter  weather,  and  his  business,  served  to  make  him 
more  cheerful  than  he  had  been ;  and  had  he  cared  to 
think  about  such  matters,  the  conviction  would  no  doubt 
have  forced  itself  upon  his  mind  that  he  was  doing  well, 
and  that  he  had  every  reason  to  feel  contented,  though  he 
was  not. 

Still  there  were  times  when  he  was  lonely  in  spite  of  his 
rather  busy  life,  and  nights  when  he  sent  for  Mrs.  Wedge 
and  Betty  to  keep  him  company  ;  for  there  were  strange 
sounds  through  his  house,  when  the  summer  air  was  still 
and  oppressive,  and  the  doors  and  windows  rattled  in  the 
most  unaccountable  manner. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  they  were  with  him  one  night 
long  after  their  usual  time  to  retire,  Dorris  being  particu 
larly  nervous  and  restless,  and  having  asked  them  to 
come  up  to  his  room  rather  late  in  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Wedge  had  told  him  of  Annie  Benton  a  dozen 
times  already,  but  she  made  it  a  baker's  dozen,  and  told 
him  again  of  her  simple  history  ;  of  her  popularity  in  the 
town,  though  the  people  all  seemed  to  be  shy  of  her,  and 
of  her  gruff  father,  who,  in  Mrs.  Wedge's  opinion,  would 
resent  the  appearance  of  a  lover  in  the  most  alarming 
manner.  Mrs.  Wedge  thought  she  observed  that  Dorris 
was  fond  of  this  subject,  and  kept  on  talking  about  it ; 
for  he  was  paying  close  attention  as  he  lounged  in  his 
easy  chair.  Dorris  laughed  in  such  a  way  at  the  accounts 
of  Thompson  Benton's  jealousy  of  his  daughter  that  Mrs. 
Wedge  believed  that  he  regarded  him  as  he  might  regard 
a  growling  mastiff,  which  growled  and  snapped  at  who 
ever  approached,  knowing  it  was  in  bad  taste  and  not 
expected  of  him. 

Mi-s.  Wedge  was  sure  her  employer  was  not  afraid  of 
old  Thompson,  —  or  of  any  one  else,  for  that  matter,  —  so 
she  added  this  declaration  to  the  great  number  she  was 


THE  LOCKS'   GHOST.  79 

constantly  making  in  his  defence,  and  repeated  it  to  her 
self  whenever  he  was  in  her  mind. 

She  was  pleased  with  the  circumstance  that  he  ad 
mired  Annie  Benton,  and  though  she  said  a  great  deal  in 
her  praise,  it  was  no  more  than  the  truth,  for  she  was  a 
girl  worthy  of  admiration  and  respect.  But  the  subject 
was  exhausted  at  last,  and  when  she  got  up  to  go  out, 
Dorris  roused  himself  from  one  of  his  reveries,  and  asked 
her  to  tell  him  the  history  of  The  Locks,  as  a  last  resort  to 
induce  her  to  keep  him  company. 

The  worthy  woman  seated  herself  again,  smoothed 
down  the  folds  of  her  apron,  and  began  by  saying,  — 

"  Betty,  open  the  door  leading  into  the  hall." 

The  child  did  as  she  was  directed,  and,  coming  back, 
brought  up  a  low  chair,  and  rested  her  head  on  her  grand 
mother's  knee. 

"  Listen,"  Mrs.  Wedge  said  again. 

They  were  all  perfectly  quiet,  and  a  timid  step  could 
be  distinctly  heard  on  the  stair ;  it  came  up  to  the  land 
ing,  and,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  seemed  to  pass  into 
the  room  into  which  no  one  was  to  look.  The  little  girl 
shivered,  and  was  lifted  into  her  grandmother's  lap, 
where  she  hid  away  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

Dorris  was  familiar  with  this  step  on  the  stair,  for  he 
had  heard  it  frequently,  and  at  night  the  thought  had 
often  occurred  to  him  that  some  one  was  in  the  house, 
going  quietly  from  one  room  to  another.  A  great  many 
times  he  had  taken  the  light,  and  looked  into  every  place 
from  the  cellar  to  the  attic,  but  he  found  nothing,  and 
discovered  nothing,  except  that  when  in  the  attic  he 
heard  the  strange,  muffled,  and  ghostly  noises  in  the 
rooms  he  had  just  left. 

"  It  is  not  a  ghost  to  frighten  you,"  Mrs.  Wedge  said, 
looking  at  her  employer,  "  but  the  spirit  of  an  unhappy 


80  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

woman  come  back  from  the  grave.  Whenever  the  house 
is  quiet,  the  step  can  always  be  heard  on  the  stair,  but  I 
have  never  regarded  it  with  horror,  though  I  have  been 
familiar  with  it  for  a  great  many  years.  I  rather  regard 
it  as  a  visit  from  an  old  friend  ;  and  before  you  came  I 
often  sat  alone  in  this  room  after  dark,  listening  to  the 
footsteps. 

"  Jerome  Dudley,  who  built  The  Locks,  was  a  young 
man  of  great  intelligence,  energy,  and  capacity;  but  his 
wife  was  lacking  in  these  qualities.  Perhaps  I  had 
better  say  that  he  thought  so,  for  I  never  express  an 
opinion  of  my  own  on  the  subject,  since  they  were  both 
my  friends.  I  may  say  with  propriety,  however,  that 
they  were  unsuited  to  each  other,  and  that  both  knew  and 
admitted  it,  and  accepted  their  marriage  as  the  blight  of 
their  lives.  Differently  situated,  she  would  have  been  a 
useful  woman ;  but  she  was  worse  than  of  no  use  to 
Jerome  Dudley,  as  he  was  contemptible  in  many  ways 
towards  her  in  spite  of  his  capacity  for  being  a  splendid 
man  under  different  circumstances. 

"The  world  is  full  of  such  maiTiages,  I  have  been  told  ; 
so  I  had  sympathy  for  them  both,  and  was  as  useful  to 
them  as  I  could  be.  When  I  came  here  as  housekeeper, 
I  knew  at  once  that  they  were  living  a  life  of  misery, 
for  they  occupied  different  rooms,  and  were  never  together 
except  at  six  o'clock  dinner. 

"  Mr.  Dudley  always  went  to  his  business  in  the  morn 
ing  before  his  wife  was  stirring,  and  did  not  return  again 
until  evening ;  and,  after  despatching  his  dinner,  he  either 
went  back  to  his  work,  or  into  his  own  room,  from  \vhich 
he  did  not  emerge  until  morning.  He  was  not  a  gloomy 
man,  but  he  was  dissatisfied  with  his  wife,  and  felt  that 
she  was  a  drawback  rather  than  a  help  to  him. 

"The  management  of  the  house  was  turned  over  to  me 


THE  LOCKS'    GHOST.  81 

completely,  and  when  I  presided  at  the  table  in  the 
morning,  he  was  always  good-natured  and  respectful, 
(though  he  was  always  out  of  humor  when  his  wife  was  in 
the  same  room  with  him)  and  frequently  told  me  of  his 
successes,  and  he  had  a  great  many,  for  he  was  a  money- 
making  man  ;  but  I  am  sure  he  never  spoke  of  them  to  his 
wife.  His  household  affairs  he  discussed  only  with  me, 
and  the  fact  that  I  remained  in  his  service  until  I  entered 
yours  should  be  taken  as  evidence  that  I  gave  satisfaction." 

Dorris  bowed  respectfully  to  Mrs.  Wedge  in  assent,  and 
she  proceeded, — 

"  Mrs.  Dudley  spent  her  time  in  her  own  room  in  an 
indolent  way  that  was  common  to  her,  doing  nothing 
except  to  look  after  her  little  girl,  who  was  never  strong. 
The  child  was  four  years  old  when  I  came,  and  the  father 
lavished  all  his  affection  upon  it.  He  had  the  reputation 
of  being  a  hard,  exacting  man  in  his  business,  and  gave 
but  few  his  confidence,  which  I  think  was  largely  due  to 
his  unsatisfactory  home ;  and  I  have  heard  him  say  that  but 
two  creatures  in  all  the  world  seemed  to  understand  him 
—  the  child,  and  myself.  It  was  a  part  of  my  duty  to 
carry  the  child  to  its  father's  room  every  night  before 
putting  it  to  bed ;  and  though  I  usually  found  him  at  a 
desk  surrounded  with  business  papers,  he  always  had  time 
to  kiss  its  pretty  lips  if  asleep,  or  romp  with  it  if  awake. 

"While  the  mother  cheerfully  turned  over  the  house 
hold  affairs  to  me  entirely,  she  was  jealous  of  the  child, 
and  constantly  worried  and  fretted  with  reference  to  it. 
The  father  believed  that  his  daughter  was  not  well  cared 
for,  in  spite  of  the  mother's  great  affection,  'for  she 
humored  it  to  its  disadvantage ;  and  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  child  was  sick  a  great  deal  more  than 
wr.s  necessary.  From  being  shut  up  in  a  close  room  too 
much,  it  was  tender  and  delicate,  and  when  the  door  was 


82        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

open,  it  always  went  romping  into  the  hall  until  brought 
back  again,  which  resulted  in  a  cold  and  a  spell  of  sick 
ness.  This  annoyed  Mr.  Dudley,  and  from  remarks  he 
occasionally  made  to  me  I  knew  he  believed  that  if  the 
little  girl  should  die,  the  mother  would  be  to  blame. 

" '  It  would  be  better  if  she  had  no  mother,'  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  saying.  When  children  are  properly  managed, 
they  become  a  comfort ;  but  if  a  foolish  sentiment  is 
indulged  in,  the  affections  of  the  parents  are  needlessly 
lacerated,  and  they  become  a  burden.  I  say  this  with 
charity,  and  I  have  become  convinced  of  it  during  my 
long  life.  Little  Dudley  was  managefl  by  the  mother 
with  so  much  mistaken  affection  that  she  was  always  a 
care  and  a  burden.  Instead  of  going  to  bed  at  night,  and 
sleeping  peacefully  until  morning,  as  children  should,  she 
was  always  wakeful,  fretful,  and  ill,  and  Mr.  Dudley's  rest 
was  disturbed  so  much  that  I  thought  he  had  some  excuse 
for  his  bad  humor ;  for  nothing  is  so  certain  as  that  all 
this  was  unnecessary.  The  child  was  under  no  restraint, 
and  was  constantly  doing  that  which  was  not  good  for 
her,  and  though  her  mother  protested,  she  did  nothing 
else. 

"  Because  the  father  complained  of  being  disturbed  at 
all  hours  of  the  night,  the  mother  accused  him  of  heart- 
lessness  and  of  a  lack  of  affection,  but  he  explained  this 
to  me  by  saying  that  he  only  pi'otested  because  his  child 
was  not  cared  for  as  it  should  be ;  because  that  which  was 
intended  as  a  blessing  became  an  irksome  responsibility, 
and  because  he  was  in  constant  dread  for  its  life. 

"  Whether  the  mother  was  to  blame  or  not  will 
perhaps  never  be  known  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  child 
died  after  a  lingering  illness,  and  the  father  was  in  a 
pitiful  state  from  rage  and  grief.  He  did  not  speak  to 
his  wife  during  the  illness,  or  after  the  death,  which  she 


THE  LOCKS'   GHOST.  83 

must  have  accepted  as  an  accusation  that  she  was  somehow 
responsible ;  for  she  soon  took  to  her  bed,  and  never  left  it 
alive  except  to  wearily  climb  the  stairs  at  twelve  o'clock 
every  night,  to  visit  the  child's  deserted  room, —  the  room 
next  to  this,  and  into  which  no  one  is  permitted  to  look. 
Her  bed  was  on  the  lower  floor,  in  the  room  back  of  the 
parlor,  and  every  night  at  twelve  o'clock,  which  was  the 
hour  the  child  died,  she  wrapped  the  coverings  about 
her,  and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  clinging  to  the  railing 
with  pitiful  weakness  with  one  hand,  and  carrying  the 
lamp  with  the  other. 

"  I  frequently  tried  to  prevent  her  doing  this ;  but  she 
always  begged  so  pitcously  that  I  could  not  resist  the 
appeal.  She  imagined,  poor  soul,  that  she  heard  the  child 
calling  her,  and  she  always  asked  me  not  to  accompany 
her. 

"  One  night  she  was  gone  such  a  long  time  that  at  last 
I  followed,  and  found  her  dead,  kneeling  beside  her  child's 
empty  crib,  and  the  light  out.  Mr.  Dudley  was  very 
much  frightened  and  distressed ;  and  I  think  the  circum 
stance  hastened  his  departure  from  Davy's  Bend,  which 
occurred  a  few  weeks  later.  He  has  never  been  in  the 
house  since. 

"  It  is  said  that  once  a  year  —  on  the  third  of  May  —  at 
exactly  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  a  light  appears  in  the 
lo \verroom,  which  soon  goes  out,  and  appears  in  the  hall. 
A  great  many  people  have  told  me  that  they  have  seen 
the  light,  and  that  it  grows  dimmer  in  the  lowrer  hall,  and 
brighter  in  the  upper,  until  it  disappears  in  the  room  where 
the  empty  crib  still  stands,  precisely  as  if  it  were  carried 
by  some  one  climbing  the  stair.  It  soon  disappears  from 
the  upper  room,  and  is  seen  no  more  until  another  year 
rolls  round.  I  have  never  seen  the  light,  but  I  have  often 
heard  the  step.  Sometimes  it  is  silent  for  months 


84  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

together,  but  usually  I  hear  it  whenever  I  am  in  the  main 
house  at  night.  Just  before  there  is  a  death  in  the  town, 
or  the  occurrence  of  any  serious  accident,  it  goes  up  and 
down  with  unvarying  persistency ;  but  there  is  a  long  rest 
after  the  death  or  the  accident  foretold  has  occurred." 
When  Mrs.  "Wedge  had  ceased  talking,  there  was 

o  o? 

perfect  silence  in  the  room  again,  and  the  footsteps  were 
heard  descending  the  stair.  Occasionally  there  was  a 
painful  pause,  but  they  soon  went  on  again,  and  were 
heard  no  more. 

"  Poor  Helen,"  Mrs.  Wedge  said,  wiping  her  eyes,  "  how 
reluctantly  she  leaves  the  little  crib." 

Mrs.  Wedge  soon  followed  the  ghost  of  poor  Helen 
down  the  stair,  carrying  Betty  in  her  arms  ;  and  as  Dorris 
stood  on  the  landing  lighting  them  down,  he  thought,  as 
they  passed  into  the  shadow  in  the  lower  hall,  that  poor 
Helen  had  found  her  child,  and  was  leaving  the  house 
forever,  content  to  remain  in  her  grave  at  last. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A   REMARKABLE    GIRL. 

A  KNTE  BENTON  had  said  that  she  usually  practised 
-£-»-  once  a  week  in  the  church ;  and  during  the  lonely 
days  after  his  first  meeting  with  her,  Allan  Dorris  began 
to  wonder  when  he  should  see  her  again.  The  sight  of 
her,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  her  magic  music, 
had  afforded  him  a  strange  pleasure,  and  he  thought  about 
her  so  much  that  his  mind  experienced  relief  from  the 
thoughts  -that  had  made  him  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  But 
he  heard  nothing  of  her,  except  from  Mrs.  Wedge,  who 
was  as  loud  in  her  praise  as  ever;  though  he  looked  for  her 
as  he  rode  about  on  his  business  affairs,  and  a  few  times 
he  had  walked  by  her  father's  house,  after  dark,  and 
looked  at  its  substantial  exterior. 

There  was  something  about  the  girl  which  fascinated 
him.  It  may  have  been  only  the  music,  but  certainly  he 
longed  for  her  appearance,  and  listened  attentively  for 
notice  of  her  presence  whenever  he  walked  in 'his  yard, 
which  was  his  custom  so  much  of  late  that  he  had  worn 
paths  under  the  trees ;  for  had  he  secured  all  the  business 
in  Davy's  Bend  he  would  still  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
time  on  his  hands. 

During  these  weeks  he  sometimes  accused  himself  of 
being  in  love  with  a  girl  he  had  seen  but  once,  and 
laughed  at  the  idea  as  absurd  and  preposterous ;  but  this 
did  not  drive  thoughts  of  Annie  Benton  out  of  his  mind, 
for  he  stopped  to  listen  at  every  turn  for  sounds  of  her 

85 


86  THE  ilYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

presence.  After  listening  during  the  hours  of  the  day 
when  he  was  not  occupied,  he  usually  walked  in  the  path 
for  a  while  at  night,  hoping  it  might  be  possible  that  she 
had  changed  her  hours,  and  would  come  to  practise  after 
the  cares  and  duties  of  the  day  were  over.  He  could  see 
from  his  own  window  that  the  church  was  dark ;  but  he 
had  little  to  do,  so  he  took  a  turn  in  the  path  down  by 
the  wall  to  convince  himself  that  she  was  not  playing 
softly,  without  a  light,  to  give  her  fancy  free  rein.  But  he 
was  always  disappointed ;  and,  after  finding  that  his 
watching  was  hopeless,  he  went  out  at  the  iron  gate  in 
front,  and  walked  along  the  roads  until  he  recovered  from 
his  disappointment  sufficiently  to  enter  his  own  home. 

This  was  his  daily  experience  for  several  weeks  after 
his  first  meeting  with  the  girl,  for  even  the  Sunday  ser 
vices  were  neglected  for  that  length  of  time  on  account 
of  the  pastor,  who  was  away  recruiting  his  health  ;  when 
one  afternoon  he  heard  the  tones  of  his  old  friend  the 
organ  again.  Climbing  up  on  the  wall,  and  looking  at 
the  girl  through  the  broken  window,  he  imagined  that 
she  was  not  playing  with  the  old  earnestness,  and  certainly 
she  frequently  looked  toward  the  door,  as  if  expecting 
someone.  Jumping  down  from  the  wall,  he  went  around 
to  the  front  door,  which  he  found  open,  and  entered  the 
church.  The  girl  heard  his  step  on  the  threshold,  and 
was  looking  toward  him  when  he  came  in  at  the  door 
leading  from  the  vestibule. 

"  I  seem  to  have  known  you  a  long  time,"  he  said,  as 
he  sat  down  near  her,  after  exchanging  the  small  civilities 
that  were  necessary  under  the  circumstances,  "  and  I  have 
been  waiting  for  you  as  anxiously  as  though  you  were  my 
best  friend.  I  have  been  very  busy  all  my  life,  and  I 
don't  enjoy  idleness,  though  I  imagined  when  I  was  work 
ing  hard  that  I  would  relish  a  season  of  rest.  I  have  little 


A   REMARKABLE  GIEL.  87 

to  do  here  except  to  wait  for  you  and  listen  to  the  music. 
Had  you  delayed  your  coming  many  days  longer  I  should 
have  called  on  you  at  your  home.  You  are  the  only  ac 
quaintance  I  have  in  the  town  whose  society  I  covet." 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  the  girl  had  been  expecting 
him,  and  that  she  was  pleased  that  he  came  in  so  promptly. 
Pier  manner  indicated  it,  and  she  was  perfectly  willing  to 
neglect  her  practice  for  his  company,  which  had  not  been 
the  case  before.  She  was  better  dressed,  too ;  and  surely 
she  would  have  been  disappointed  had  not  Dorris  made 
his  appearance. 

Annie  Benton,  like  her  father,  improved  on  acquaint 
ance.  She  was  neither  too  tall  nor  too  short,  and,  although 
he  was  not  an  expert  in  such  matters,  Dorris  imagined 
that  her  figure  would  have  been  a  study  for  a  sculptor. 
A  woman  so  well  formed  as  to  attract  no  particular  com 
ment  on  first  acquaintance,  he  thought ;  but  he  remarked 
now,  as  he  looked  steadily  at  her,  that  there  was  a  remark 
able  regularity  in  her  features.  There  are  women  who 
do  not  bear  close  inspection,  but  Annie  Benton  could  not 
be  appreciated  without  it.  Her  smile  surprised  every  one, 
because  of  its  beauty ;  but  the  observer  soon  forgot  that 
in  admiring  her  pretty  teeth,  and  both  these  were  forgot 
ten  when  she  spoke,  as  she  did  now  to  Dorris,  tiring  of 
being  looked  at ;  for  her  voice  was  musical,  and  thoroughly 
under  control : 

"I  have  dreaded  to  even  pass  The  Locks  at  night  ever 
since  I  can  remember,"  she  said  with  some  hesitation,  not 
knowing  exactly  how  to  treat  the  frankness  with  which 
he  acknowledged  the  pleasure  her  presence  afforded  him, 
"  and  I  don't  wonder  that  anyone  living  in  it  alone  is 
lonely.  They  say  there  is  a  ghost  there,  and  a  mysterious 
light,  and  a  footstep  on  the  stair ;  and  I  am  almost  afraid 
to  talk  about  it." 


88  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Allan  Dorris  had  a  habit  of  losing  himself  in  thought 
when  in  the  midst  of  a  conversation,  and  though  he  said 

»  O 

he  had  been  waiting  patiently  to  hear  the  music,  it  did  not 
arouse  him,  for  the  girl  had  tired  of  waiting  for  his  reply, 
and  gone  to  playing. 

Xow  that  he  was  in  her  presence  he  did  not  seem  to 
realize  the  pleasure  he  expected  when  he  walked  under 
the  trees  and  waited  for  her.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking 
of  the  footstep  on  the  stair,  which  he  had  become  so 
accustomed  to  that  he  thought  no  more  of  it  than  the 
chirping  of  a  cricket ;  but  more  likely  he  was  thinking 
that  what  he  had  in  his  mind  to  say  to  the  girl,  when  alone, 
was  not  at  all  appropriate  now  that  he  was  with  her. 

"An  overture  to  'Poor  Helen,'"  Dorris  thought,  when 
he  looked  up,  and  heard  the  music,  after  coming  out  of 
his  reverie  ;  for  it  was  full  of  whispered  sadness,  and  the 
girl  certainly  had  that  unfortunate  lady  in  her  mind  when 
she  began  playing,  for  she  had  spoken  of  her  tireless  step 
on  the  stair ;  and  when  he  walked  back  to  the  other  end  of 
the  church,  he  thought  of  the  pretty  girl  in  white,  at  the 
instrument,  as  a  spirit  come  back  to  warn  him  with  music 
to  be  very  careful  of  his  future. 

Where  had  the  girl  learned  so  much  art?  He  had 
never  heard  better  music,  and  though  there  was  little 
order  in  it,  a  mournful  harmony  ran  through  it  all  that 
occasionally  caused  his  flesh  to  creep.  She  was  not  play 
ing  from  notes,  either,  but  seemed  to  be  amusing  herself  by 
making  odd  combinations  with  the  stops ;  and  so  well  did 
she  understand  the  secret  of  the  minors  that  her  playing 
reminded  him  of  a  great  orchestra  he  had  once  heard,  and 
which  had  greatly  impressed  him. 

Where  had  this  simple  country-girl  learned  so  much  of 
doubt,  of  despair,  and  of  anguish  ?  Allan  Dorris  thought 
that  had  his  fingers  possessed  the  necessary  skill,  his 


A   REMARKABLE   GIRL.  89 

heart  might  have  suggested  such  strains  as  he  was  hear 
ing;  but  that  a  Avoman  of  twenty,  who  had  never  been 
out  of  her  poor  native  town,  could  set  such  tales  of  hor 
ror  and  unrest  and  discontent  to  music,  puzzled  him. 
The  world  was  full  of  hearts  containing  sorrowful  sym 
phonies  such  as  he  was  now  listening  to,  but  they  were 
usually  in  older  breasts,  and  he  thought  there  could  be 
but  one  explanation  —  the  organist  was  an  unusual 
woman ;  the  only  flower  in  a  community  of  roiigh  weeds, 
scrub-oaks,  and  thistles,  wind-sown  by  God.  in  His  mercy ; 
a  flower  which  did  not  realize  its  rarity,  and  was  there 
fore  modest  in  its  innocence  and  purity.  But  her  weird 
music ;  she  must  have  thought  a  great  deal  because  of  her 
motherless  and  lonely  childhood,  for  such  strains  as  her 
deft  fingers  produced  could  not  have  been  found  in  a 
light  heart. 

"  There  are  few  players  equal  to  you,"  he  said,  standing 
by  her  side  when  she  finally  concluded,  and  looked 
around.  "  A  great  many  players  I  have  known  had  the 
habit  of  drowning  the  expert  performance  of  the  right 
hand  with  the  clumsy  drumming  of  the  left ;  but  you 
seem  to  understand  that  the  left  hand  should  modestly 
follow  and  assist,  not  lead,  as  is  the  habit  of  busy  people. 
There  are  many  people  who  have  devoted  a  lifetime  to 
study,  surrounded  with  every  advantage,  who,  cannot 
equal  you.  I  am  an  admirer  of  the  grand  organ,  and 
have  taken  every  occasion  to  hear  it ;  but  there  is  a 
natural  genius  about  your  playing  that  is  very  striking." 

"No  one  has  ever  told  me  that  before,"  she  replied, 
turning  her  face  from  him.  "  I  have  never  been  compli 
mented  except  by  the  respectful  attention  of  the  people ; 
and  father  once  said  I  could  play  almost  as  well  as  my 
mother.  Your  good  opinion  encourages  me,  for  you 
have  lived  outside  of  Davy's  Bend." 


90  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Well,  yes,  he  had  lived  outside  of  Davy's  Bend,  and 
this  may  have  been  the  reason  he  now  looked  away  from 
the  girl  and  became  lost  to  her  presence.  He  did  not  do 
this  rudely,  but  there  was  a  pathetic  thoughtfulness  in 
his  face  which  caused  the  girl  to  remain  silent  while  he 
visited  other  scenes.  Perhaps  Allan  Dorris  is  not  the 
only  man  —  let  us  imagine  so,  in  charity  —  who  has  lived 
in  other  towns,  and  become  thoughtful  when  the  circum 
stance  was  mentioned. 

"  If  there  is  genius  in  my  playing,  I  did  not  know  it, 
for  it  is  not  the  result  of  training ;  it  comes  to  me  like 
my  thoughts,"  the  girl  finally  continued,  when  Dorris 
looked  around.  "  When  you  were  here  before,  you  were 
kind  enough  to  commend  me,  and  say  that  a  certain  pas 
sage  gave  evidence  of  great  study  and  practice.  I  am 
obliged  to  you  for  your  good  opinion,  but  the  strains 
really  came  to  me  in  a  moment,  and  while  they  pleased 
me,  I  never  studied  them." 

The  girl  said  this  with  so  much  simple  earnestness  that 
Allan  Dorris  felt  sure  that  his  good  opinion  of  her  play 
ing  would  not  cause  her  to  practise  less  in  the  future, 
but  rather  with  an  increased  determination  for  improve 
ment. 

"  I  think  that  your  playing  would  attract  the  attention 
of  the  best  musicians,"  he  said.  "  The  critics  could  point 
out  defects,  certainly,  for  a  great  many  persons  listen  to 
music  not  to  enjoy  it,  but  to  detect  what  they  regard  as 
faults  or  inaccuracies;  but  the  masters  would  cheerfully 
forgive  the  faults,  remembering  their  own  hard  experi 
ence,  and  enjoy  the  genius  which  seems  to  inspire  you. 
I  only  wonder  where  you  learned  it." 

"  Not  from  competent  teachers,"  she  replied,  as  though 
she  regretted  to  make  the  confession.  "  The  best  music 
I  ever  heard  was  that  of  the  bands  which  visit  the  place 


A  KEMARKABLE  GIRL.  91 

at  long  intervals.  I  have  seldom  attended  their  enter 
tainments,  but  my  father  has  listened  with  me  when  they 
played  on  the  outside,  and  we  both  enjoyed  it.  All  that 
I  know  of  style  and  expression  I  learned  from  them.  I 
once  heard  a  minstrel  band  play  in  front  of  the  hall,  on 
a  wet  evening,  when  there  was  no  prospect  of  an  audi- 
ence,  and  there  was  such  an  air  of  mournfulness  in  it  that 
I  remember  it  yet.  It  is  dreadful  to  imitate  minstrel 
music  in  a  church,  but  you  have  spoken  so  kindly  of  my 
playing  that  I  will  try  it,  if  you  care  to  listen." 

They  were  both  amused  at  the  idea,  and  laughed  over 
it ;  and  after  Dorris  had  signified  his  eagerness  to  hear  it, 
and  reached  his  favorite  place  to  listen,  the  back  pew,  he 
reclined  easily  in  it,  and  waited  until  the  stops  were 
arranged. 

The  music  began  with  a  crash,  or  burst,  or  something 
of  that  kind,  and  then  ran  off  into  an  air  for  the  bari 
tone.  This  was  the  girl's  favorite  style  of  playing,  and 
there  was  really  a  very  marked  resemblance  to  a  band. 
There  was  an  occasional  exercise  for  the  supposed  cor 
nets,  but  the  music  soon  ran  back  into  the  old  strain,  as 
though  the  players  could  not  get  rid  of  the  prospect  of 
an  empty  house,  and  were  permitting  the  baritone  to 
express  their  joint  regrets.  The  accompaniment  in  the 
treble  was  in  such  odd  time,  and  expressed  in ,  such  an 
odd  way,  that  Dorris  could  not  help  laughing  to  himself, 
although  he  enjoyed  it ;  but  finally  all  the  instruments 
joined  in  a  race  to  get  to  the  end,  and  the  music  ceased. 
He  started  up  the  aisle  to  congratulate  the  player,  and 
when  half  way  she  said  to  him  : 

"  At  another  time  I  heard  a  band  coming  up  from  the 
river.  The  players  seemed  to  be  in  better  spirits  that 
day"- 

A   distant   march,  and   a  lively  one,  came   from  the 


92  THE  MYSTEIiY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

organ,  and  surely  there  were  banners  in  front  of  the 
players.  The  music  gradually  became  louder,  and  finally 
the  girl  said,  — 

"  Now  it  turns  the  corner  of  the  street." 

Then  came  a  crash  of  melody,  and  Dorris  was  almost 
tempted  to  look  out  of  the  window  for  the  procession 
that  he  felt  sure  was  passing.  It  was  just  such  an  air  as 
a  band-master  might  select  to  impress  the  people  favora 
bly  on  his  first  appearance  in  a  town ;  and  every  member 
did  his  best  until  the  grand  finale,  which  exhausted  the 
powers  of  the  organ. 

When  the  girl  turned  round,  Dorris  was  laughing,  and 
she  joined  him  in  it. 

"It  is  a  dreadful  thing  for  a  girl  to  do,"  she  said, 
though  her  face  indicated  that  she  did  not  think  it  was 
so  dreadful,  after  all,  and  that  she  enjoyed  it ;  "  but  when 
father  comes  to  hear  me  practise,  he  insists  on  hearing  the 
band  pieces ;  and  he  sometimes  calls  for  jigs,  and  quad 
rilles,  and  waltzes,  and  imitations  of  the  hand-organ.  The 
hand-organs,  with  their  crippled  players,  have  been  of 
great  use  to  me,  for  their  music  is  all  well  arranged,  and 
father  says  that  if  I  can  equal  them  he  will  be  very  proud 
of  me.  Please  don't  laugh  at  the  idea,  for  father  never 
says  anything  that  is  silly,  and  he  knows  good  music  when 
he  hears  it.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  to  make  light  of  the 
barrel-organ  ;  and  the  people  talk  a  great  deal  about  brib 
ing  the  players  to  leave  town ;  but  father  says  a  great 
many  customs  are  not  founded  in  good  sense,  and  per 
haps  this  is  one  of  them.  We  so  rarely  find  innocent 
pleasure  that  wre  should  be  free  to  enjoy  it,  no  matter 
what  it  is,  or  where  found,  whether  custom  happens  to 
look  on  approvingly  or  not." 

"  I  am  glad  you  said  that,"  Dorrisreturned,  "  for  I  enjoy 
coming  here  to  listen  to  your  practising,  and  whether  the 


A   IlEMAKKABLE   GIKL.  93 

world  approves  or  not,  I  intend  to  come  whenever  there 
is  opportunity,  and  you  do  not  object.  It  is  my  opinion 
that  you  have  never  been  appreciated  here,  and  I  will 
repay  you  for  the  music  by  fully  and  thoroughly  appre 
ciating  it.  Do  you  know  that  you  are  a  remarkable  girl  ?  " 

Dorris  was  a  bold  fellow,  the  girl  thought,  but  there 
was  nothing  offensive  in  his  frankness.  He  seemed  to 
say  whatever  occurred  to  him,  without  stopping  to  think 
of  its  effects. 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me,"  she  said. 

"Really  and  truly?" 

"Really  and  truly,"  she  replied.  "  If  there  is  merit  in 
my  playing,  I  might  have  lived  all  my  life  without  find 
ing  it  out,  but  for  you." 

"Then  let  me  be  the  first  to  tell  you  of  it.  You  are 
very  pretty,  and  you  have  talent  above  those  around  you. 
I  hear  that  your  father  is  a  very  sensible  man ;  he  no 
doubt  appreciates  what  I  have  said,  but  dreads  to  tell  you 
of  it,  fearing  you  will  become  discontented,  and  lose 
much  of  the  charm  that  is  so  precious  to  him.  The 
friends  of  Cynthia  Miller  force  themselves  into  the  belief 
that  you  are  no  handsomer  than  she,  and  that  your  play 
ing  is  no  better  than  her  drumming.  All  the  other  Davy's 
Bend  maids  have  equally  dull  and  enthusiastic  friends; 
but  I,  who  have  lived  in  intelligent  communities,  and  am 
without  prejudice,  tell  you  that  I  have  never  seen  a  pret 
tier  girl  in  my  life.  You  have  intelligence  and  capacity, 
too.  Mrs.  Wedge  has  told  me  the  pretty  story  of  how 
you  became  an  organist,  and  I  admire  you  for  it.  .  Some 
people  I  have  known  were  content  to  be  willing  to  do 
creditable  things,  and  came  to  believe  in  time  that  they 
had  accomplished  all  they  intended,  without  really  aco$>m- 
plishing  anything ;  but  I  admire  you  because  you  do  not 
know  yourself  how  much  of  a  woman  you  are ;  at  least 


94  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

you  make  no  sign  of  it.  I  am  glad  to  be  the  first  to  do 
justice  to  a  really  remarkable  woman." 

The  remarkable  woman  was  evidently  surprised  to  hear 
this ;  for  she  was  very  much  flustered,  and  hung  her  head. 

"If  a  girl  as  pretty  and  intelligent  as  you  are,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  should  fall  in  love  with  me,  I  believe  I  should 
die  with  joy;  for  a  girl  like  you  could  find  in  her  heart 
a  love  worth  having.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do 
under  such  circumstances,  for  I  have  had  no  experience ; 
but  I  imagine  I  should  be  very  enthusiastic,  and  express 
my  enthusiasm  in  some  absurd  way.  No  one  ever  loved 
me,  that  I  can  remember ;  for  as  a  child  I  do  not  believe 
I  was  welcome  to  the  food  I  ate,  though  I  was  not  more 
troublesome  than  other  children  who  receive  so  much 
attention  that  they  care  nothing  for  it.  I  have  been 
indignant  at  men  for  beating  their  dogs,  and  then  en 
vied  the?  love  the  brutes  displayed  while  the  smart  was 
yet  on  their  bodies.  It  has  so  chanced  that  the  dogs 
I  have  owned  were  well  treated  and  ungrateful,  and 
finally  followed  off  some  of  the  vagrants  who  were  hard 
masters.  I  have  thought  that  they  despised  me  because 
they  were  fat  and  idle,  believing  these  conditions  to  be 
uncomfortable,  having  never  experienced  poverty  and 
hard  treatment;  but  certainly  they  regarded  me  with 
indifference  and  suspicion.  But  I  didn't  try  to  force 
them  to  admire  me  ;  I  rather  kept  out  of  their  way ;  for 
an  animal  cannot  be  driven  to  love  his  master,  and  you 
cannot  force  or  persuade  a  man  to  admire  any  one  he  dis 
likes." 

"  It  is  possible  that  you  only  imagine  it,"  the  girl  said. 
"  Such  doubts  as  you  express  have  often  come  to  me,  biit 
I  have  comforted  myself  with  the  poor  reflection  that 
there  is  so  little  love  in  the  world  that  when  it  is  divided 
among  the  people,  it  does  not  amount  to  as  much  as  they 


A   REMARKABLE   GIRL.  95 

wish.  I  know  nothing  of  your  situation,  past  or  present, 
but  is  it  not  possible  that  everyone  has  the  same  com 
plaint  that  you  have?" 

"  There  is  force  in  your  suggestion,"  he  replied  thought 
fully,  "  but  I  do  not  believe  that  I  overdraw  my  condition ; 
I  know  too  much  of  real  wretchedness  to  permit  myself 
to  worry  over  fancied  wrongs.  I  hope  I  am  too  sensible 
to  weave  an  impossible  something  out  of  my  mind,  and 
then  grieve  because  of  a  lack  of  it.  I  might  long  for 
something  which  does  not  exist,  but  so  long  as  I  am  as 
well  off  as  others,  I  will  be  as  content  as  others;  but 
when  I  have  seen  that  which  I  covet,  and  know  that  I  am 
as  deserving  as  others  who  possess  my  prize,  its  lack  causes 
me  regret  which  I  can  shake  off,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
is  always  in  my  mind.  This  regi'et  has  no  other  effect 
than  to  make  me  gloomy,  Avhich  no  man  should  be;  I  can 
get  it  out  of  my  actions  when  I  try,  but  I  cannot  get  it 
out  of  my  mind.  Happiness  is  not  common,  I  believe ; 
for  I  have  never  known  a  man  or  woman  who  did  not  in 
some  way  excite  my  pity  on  closer  acquaintance,  but 
owing  to  a  strange  peculiarity  in  my  disposition,  I  have 
always  felt  the  lack  of  honest  friendship.  This  is  my 
malady,  and  perhaps  my  acquaintances  pity  me  because 
of  it,  as  I  pity  them  because  of  their  misfortunes.  It 
must  be  that  I  have  a  disagreeable  way  about  me,  and 
repel  friendship,  though  I  am  always  trying  to  be  agree 
able,  and  always  trying  to  make  friends.  I  have  little 
ambition  above  this ;  therefore  I  suppose  it  may  be  said 
that  I  am  no  more  unfortunate  than  others  who.  have 
greater  ambitions,  and  fail  in  them.  I  have  been  told  that 
men  who  have  creat  success  find  friends  a  bother  and  a 

O 

hindrance ;  so  it  comes  about  that  we  are  all  disap 
pointed,  and  I  am  no  worse  off  than  others.  How  old 
are  you?" 


96  THE   MYSTERY   OF   THE   LOCKS. 

"  I  shall  be  twenty  on  my  next  birthday ;  you  asked  me 
that  before." 

"  A  little  too  old  to  become  my  pupil,"  he  continued, 
"  but  let  me  say  that  if  you  are  as  contented  as  you  look, 
make  no  experiments  in  the  future;  pursue  the  course 
you  have  already  pursued  as  long  as  you  live,  and  never 
depart  from  it.  If  you  are  given  to  dreaming,  pray  for 
sound  slumber;  if  you  occasionally  build  castles,  and 
occupy  them,  extol  your  plain  home,  and  put  aside  every 
thing  save  simplicity,  honesty,  and  duty.  There  is 
nothing  out  in  the  great  world,  from  which  I  came,  which 
will  afford  the  happiness  you  know  here.  I  know  every 
thing  about  the  world  except  the  simplicity  and  peace  of 
your  life,  and  these  are  the  jewels  which  I  seek  in  Davy's 
Bend.  The  road  leading  from  this  town  is  the  road  to 
wretchedness,  and  I  have  heard  that  those  who  have 
achieved  greatness  would  scatter  their  reputation  to  the 
quarters  from  whence  it  came  for  the  quiet  contentment 
you  know.  Many  lives  have  been  wrecked  by  day  dream 
ing,  by  hope,  by  fancy.  Pay  attention  only  to  the  com 
mon  realities.  If  you  feel  that  there  is  a  lack  in  your 
life,  attack  it  as  an  evil,  and  convince  yourself  that  it  is  a 
serious  fault ;  an  unworthy  notion,  and  a  dangerous  delu 
sion." 

"Must  all  my  pretty  castles  come  tumbling  down, 
then?"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  regret.  "Can  this  be  the 
sum  of  life,  this  round  of  dull  days?  This  dreaming 
which  you  say  is  so  dangerous  —  I  have  always  believed 
it  to  be  ambition  —  has  been  the  only  solace  of  my  life. 
I  have  longed  so  intensely  to  mingle  with  more  intelli 
gent  people  than  we  have  here,  that  I  cannot  believe  it 
was  wrong ;  I  almost  believe  you  are  dangerous,  and  I  will 
leave  you." 

She  walked  half  way  down  the  aisle,  as  if  intending  to 


A  KEMABKABLE   GIRL.  97 

go  out,  but  as  Dorris  did  not  move,  and  continued  looking 
at  the  floor,  she  came  back  again. 

"  That  is  what  you  ought  to  do  —  go  away  and  never 
come  into  my  presence  again,"  he  said,  raising  his  eyes 
and  looking  into  her  face.  "  That  was  a  good  resolve ; 
you  should  carry  it  out." 

Annie  Benton  looked  puzzled  as  she  asked  why. 

"Because  every  honest  sentiment  I  ever  expressed 
seemed  wrong,  and  against  the  established  order.  The 
friendship  of  the  people  does  not  suit  me  —  neither  does 
their  love ;  and,  miserable  beggar  though  I  am  to  feel  dissat 
isfied  with  that  which  The  King  offers,  I  am  not  content 
with  it.  I  wander  aimlessly  about,  seeking  —  I  know  not 
what.  A  more  insignificant  man  than  I  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  find ;  but  in  a  world  of  opulence,  this  mendicant, 
this  Prince  Myself,  finds  nothing  that  satisfies  him.  A 
beggar  asking  to  be  chooser,  I  reject  those  things  that 
men  prize,  and  set  my  heart  upon  that  which  is  cheap 
but  impossible.  Sent  into  the  world  to  long  for  an  im 
possibility,  I  have  fulfilled  my  mission  so  faithfully 
that  I  sometimes  wonder  that  I  am  not  rewarded  for 
it.  You  must  not  follow  a  path  that  ends  in  such  a 
place." 

He  pointed  out  of  the  window,  and  the  girl  thought 
he  referred  to  The  Locks;  certainly  it  was  not  a  cheerful 
prospect. 

"For  you,  who  are  satisfied  with  everything  around 
you,  and  who  greet  every  new  day  for  its  fresh  plea 
sures,  I  am  a  dangerous  companion,  for  my  discontent 
is  infectious.  And  though  I  warn  you  to  go  away,  you 
are  a  suspicion  of  that  which  I  have  sought  so  long.  Your 
music  has  lulled  me  into  the  only  peace  I  have  ever 
known  ;  but  principle  —  which  has  always  guided  me  into 
that  which  was  distasteful  —  demands  that  I  advise  you  to 


98  THE  MYSTEKY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

keep  out  of  my  company,  though  I  cannot  help  hoping 
that  you  will  not  heed  the  advice." 

"I  regret  that  what  you  say  —  that  I  am  contented 
with  everything  around  me  —  is  not  true,"  the  girl  replied, 
"  but  though  I  am  not,  and  wish  I  were,  I  do  not  repine  as 
you  do.  You  are  the  gloomiest  man  I  ever  knew." 

"Not  at  all  gloomy,"  he  answered.  "Listen  to  my 
laugh.  I  will  laugh  at  myself." 

Surely  such  a  good-natured  laugh  was  never  heard  be 
fore  ;  and  it  was  contagious,  too,  for  the  girl  joined  him  in 
it,  finally,  though  neither  of  them  knew  what  they  were 
laughing  about. 

"  I  seldom  afflict  my  friends  with  melancholy,"  he  said, 
"  for  I  am  usually  gay.  Gay !  I  am  the  gayest  man  in  the 
world ;  but  the  organ  caused  me  to  forget.  It 's  all  over 
now  ;  let 's  laugh  some  more." 

And  he  did  laugh  again,  as  gayly  as  before ;  a  genteel, 
hearty  laugh  it  was,  and  the  girl  joined  him,  as  before, 
though  she  could  not  have  told  what  she  was  laughing 
about  had  her  life  depended  upon  it,  except  that  it  was 
very  funny  that  her  companion  was  laughing  at  noth 
ing.  The  different  objects  in  the  church,  including  the 
organ,  seemed  to  look  at  the  pair  in  good  humor  because 
of  their  gayety ;  perhaps  the  organ  was  feeling  gay  itself, 
from  recollections  of  the  minstrel  band. 

"  It  makes  me  feel  dreadfully  gay  to  think  you  are  going 
home  presently,  and  that  I  am  to  return  to  my  cheerful 
room  in  The  Locks,  the  gayest  house  in  the  world.  Bless 
you,  there  is  no  ghost's  walk  about  that  place,  and  the 
sunshine  seems  to  be  brighter  there  than  anywhere  else 
in  the  town.  I  leave  it  with  regret,  and  return  to  it  with 
joy  ;  and  the  wind  —  I  can't  tell  you  what  pleasing  music 
the  wind  makes  with  the  windows  and  shutters.  But 
if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  walk  home  with  you,  although  I 


A   REMARKABLE   GIRL.  99 

am  dying  with  impatience  to  return  to  my  usual  gaycty. 
I  wish  it  would  rain,  and  keep  you  here  a  while  longer.  I 
am  becoming  so  funny  of  late  I  must  break  my  spirit  some 
way." 

It  was  now  dusk,  and  the  girl  having  signified  her  will 
ingness  to  accompany  him,  they  walked  out  of  the  church, 
leaving  the  old  janitor  to  lock  the  door,  which  he  probably 
did  with  unusual  cheerfulness,  for  Dorris  had  given  him 
an  amount  of  money  that  was  greater  than  a  month's 
wages. 

"  They  say  here  that  if  Thompson  Benton  should  see  a 
gentleman  with  his  daughter,"  Dorris  said,  as  they  walked 
along,  "  that  he  would  give  it  to  him  straight.  I  suppose 
they  mean,  by  that,  that  he  would  tell  him  to  clear  out ; 
but  I  will  risk  it." 

"  They  'say  a  great  many  things  about  father  that  are 
unjust,"  the  girl  answered,  "because  he  does  not  trifle. 
Father  is  the  best  man  in  the  world." 

"  The  lion  is  a  dear  old  creature  to  the  cub,"  he  replied, 
"  but  I  am  anxious  to  meet  this  gentleman  of  whom  I  have 
heard  so  much,  so  you  had  better  not  invite  me  in,  for  I 
will  accept.  A  lion's  den  would  be  a  happy  relief  to  the 
gayety  of  The  Locks,  where  we  go  on  —  the  spectres  and 
I  —  in  the  merriest  fashion  imaginable." 

Dorris  seemed  determined  to  be  gay,  and  as  they  walked 
along  he  several  times  suggested  another  laugh,  saying, 
"  now,  all  together,"  or,  "  all  ready ;  here  we  go,"  as  a  sig 
nal  for  them  to  commence,  in  such  a  queer  way  that  the 
girl  could  not  help  joining. 

"I  am  like  the  organ,"  he  said,  "gay  or  sad,  at  your 
pleasure.  Just  at  present  I  am  a  circus  tune,  but  if  you 
prefer  a  symphony,  you  have  only  to  say  the  word.  I  am 
sorry,  though,  that  you  cannot  shut  a  lid  down  over  me, 
and  cause  -me  to  be  oblivious  to  everything  until  you  ap- 


100       THE  MYSTERY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

pear  again.  Something  tells  me  that  the  stout  gentleman 
approaching  is  the  lion." 

They  were  now  in  the  vicinity  of  the  home  of  the  Ben- 
tons',  and  the  girl  laughingly  replied  that  the  stout  gen 
tleman  was  her  father.  By  the  time  they  reached  the 
gate,  he  was  waiting  for  them,  and  glaring  at  Dorris  from 
under  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  Annie  presented  the  stranger 
to  her  father,  who  explained  who  he  was,  and  said  that, 
having  been  attracted  by  the  music  in  the  church,  he  had 
taken  the  liberty  of  walking  home  with  the  player. 

"  I  have  the  habit  myself,"  old  Thompson  grunted,  evi 
dently  relieved  to  know  that  Dorris  was  not  a  lover,  and 
looking  at  him  keenly. 

He  held  the  gate  open  for  the  girl,  Avho  walked  in,  and 
then  closed  it,  leaving  Dorris  on  the  outside.  He  raised 
his  hat,  wished  them  good  night,  and  walked  away,  and 
he  imagined  when  he  looked  back  that  the  girl  was  stand 
ing  at  the  door  looking  after  him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE   "  APROX  AXD  PASSWORD." 

r  |  "^HE  guests  at  the  hotel,  with  their  dull  wit  and  small 
-L  gossip,  had  disappeared,  and  the  proprietor  was 
seated  at  the  long  table  in  the  dining-room,  eating  his 
supper,  with  no  companion  save  Silas  Davy,  the  patient 
m  an-of-al  1-work . 

A  queer  case,  the  proprietor.  Instead  of  being  useful 
to  the  hotel,  as  would  naturally  be  expected,  he  was  a 
detriment  .to  it,  for  he  did  not  even  come  to  his  meals 
when  they  were  ready,  making  a  special  table  necessary 
three  times  a  day,  greatly  to  the  disgust  of  Mrs.  Armsby, 
who  did  about  everything  around  the  place,  from  tending 
the  office  to  superintending  the  kitchen;  and  she  suc 
ceeded  so  well  in  all  these  particulars  that  occasional 
strangers  had  been  known  to  familiarly  pat  her  husband 
on  the  back,  and  congratulate  him  on  keeping  a  house 
which  was  known  far  and  near  for  its  fine  attention  to 
guests. 

Armsby  did  not  drink,  or  gamble,  or  anything  of  that 
kind,  but  he  owned  a  gun  and  a  hunting  dog,  and  knew 
exactly  when  the  ducks  appeared  in  the  lakes,  and  when 
the  shrill  piping  of  quail  might  be  expected  in  the 
thickets  ;  and  he  was  usually  there,  in  his  grotesque  hunt 
ing  costume,  to  welcome  them.  In  addition  to  this  he 
was  fond  of  fishing,  and  belonged  to  all  the  lodges;  so 
that  he  had  little  time  to  attend  to  business,  even  had  he 
been  inclined  that  way. 

101 


102        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Mrs.  Armsby  regarded  the  men  who  sold  powder  and 
fishing-tackle,  and  encouraged  the  lodges,  about  as  many 
another  sad-hearted  woman  regards  the  liquoi-sellers ; 
and,  as  she  went  wearily  about  her  work,  had  been  heard 
to  wonder  whether  hunting  and  fishing  and  lodge-going 
were  not  greater  evils  than  drinking ;  for  she  had  no  use 
for  her  husband  whatever,  although  he  was  a  great  deal  of 
trouble.  He  never  got  out  of  bed  without  being  called  a 
dozen  times,  but  when  he  did  get  up,  and  was  finally 
dressed  (which  occupied  him  at  least  an  hour)  he  was 
such  a  cheerful  fellow,  and  told  of  his  triumph  at  the 
lodge  election  the  night  before,  or  of  his  fancy  shots  the 
day  before,  with  such  good  nature  that  he  was  usually 
forgiven.  Indeed,  the  people  found  no  other  fault  with  his 
idleness  than  to  good-naturedly  refer  to  his  hotel  as  the 
"Apron  and  Password,"  probably  a  tribute  to  the  English 
way  of  naming  houses  of  public  entertainment ;  for  they 
argued  that  if  Mrs.  Armsby  could  forgive  her  husband's 
faults,  it  was  no  affair  of  theirs ;  and  by  this  name  the 
place  was  known. 

But  he  had  one  good  habit ;  he  was  fond  of  his  wife  — 
not  because  she  made  the  living,  and  allowed  him  to 
exist  in  idleness,  but  really  and  truly  fond  of  her ; 
though  everyone  was  fond  of  capable  Mrs.  Armsby  : 
for  though  she  was  nearly  always  at  work,  she  found 
tune  to  learn  enough  of  passing  events  to  be  a  fair  con 
versationalist,  and  sometimes  entertained  the  guests  in 
the  parlor  by  singing,  accompanying  herself  on  the 
piano. 

It  was  said  that  as  a  girl  Mrs.  Armsby  had  been  the 
favorite  of  a  circle  of  rich  relatives  and  friends,  and  that 
she  spent  the  earlier  portion  of  her  life  in  a  pleasant  and 
aristocratic  home ;  but  when  .she  found  it  necessary  to 
make  her  own  living,  and  support  a  husband  besides,  she 


THE    "APRON   AND    PASSWORD."  103 

went  about  it  with  apparent  good  nature,  and  was  gener 
ally  regarded  as  a  very  remarkable  woman.  She  had 
been  Annie  Benton's  first  teacher,  in  addition  to  her  regu 
lar  duties,  and  a  pupil  still  came  to  the  house  occasionally, 
only  to  find  her  making  bread  in  the  kitchen,  or  beds  in 
the  upper  rooms. 

Armsby  had  been  out  hunting,  as  usual,  and  his  wife 
had  prepared  his  supper  with  her  own  hands,  which  he 
was  now  discussing. 

"There  are  a  great  many  unhappy  women  in  the 
world,  Davy,"  Armsby  said,  looking  admiringly  at 
the  contents  of  the  plates  around  him,  "for  the 
reason  that  most  husbands  are  mean  to  their  wives. 
I  wouldn't  be  a  woman  for  all  the  money  in  Thomp 
son  Benton's  safe;  I  am  thankful  that  I  am  a  man, 
if  for  nothing  else.  It  is  very  pretty  to  say  that  any 
woman  is  so  good  that  she  can  have  her  pick  of  a 
husband,  but  it  is  not  true,  for  most  of  them  marry  men 
who  are  cross  to  them,  and  unfair,  and  thoughtless ;  but 
Mrs.  Armsby  has  her  own  way  here.  She  has  a  maid  and 
a  man,  and  I  fancy  she  is  rather  a  fortunate  woman.  In 
stead  of  being  bossed  around  by  her  husband,  he  keeps 
out  of  the  way  and  gives  her  full  charge.  Pull  up  to 
the  table  and  eat  something,  won't  you?  Help  yourself 
to  the  sardines." 

Davy  accepted  the  invitation,  and  was  helping  himself 
when  Mr.  Armsby  said  : 

"You  will  find  them  mighty  good;  and  they  ought  to 
be  good,  for  they  cost  sixty  cents  a  box  —  the  three  you 
have  on  your  plate  cost  a  dime.  But  they  are  as  free  as 
the  air  you  breathe.  Help  yourself;  have  some  more,  and 
make  it  fifteen  cents." 

Davy  concluded  not  to  take  any  sardines  after  this, 
and  after  browsing  around  among  the  mixed  pickles  and 


104  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

goat-cheese  awhile,  and  being  told  that  they  ought  to  be 
good,  for  they  cost  enough,  he  concluded  that  Armsby's 
hospitality  was  intended  as  a  means  of  calling  attention 
to  his  rich  fare ;  for  he  was  very  particular,  and  in  order 
to  please  him  his  wife  always  provided  something  for  his 
table  which  was  produced  at  no  other  time.  There  was 
a  bottle  of  olives  on  the  table,  and  when  Davy  took  one 
of  them,  Annsby  explained  that  he  had  imported  them 
himself  at  enormous  expense,  although  they  had  been 
really  bought  at  one  of  the  stores  as  a  job  lot,  the  pro 
prietor  having  had  them  on  hand  a  number  of  years. 

"Any  guests  to-night?"  Armsby  inquired,  trying  to 
look  very  much  vexed  that  the  clerk  had  not  accepted 
the  invitation  to  refresh  himself. 

"  No,"  Davy  answered,  a  little  sulky  because  of  his 
rebuff. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  Armsby  continued.  "Mrs. 
Armsby  enjoys  a  lively  parlor,  and  she  has  a  great  deal  of 
time  in  which  to  make  herself  agreeable.  What  a  won 
derful  woman  she  is  to  fix  up !  Always  neat,  and  always 
pleasant ;  but  she  has  little  else  to  do.  You  don't  take 
very  kindly  to  the  ladies  yourself,  Davy  ?  " 

The  boarders  frequently  accused  Davy  of  being  fond 
of  various  old  widows  and  maids  in  the  town,  whom  he 
had  really  never  spoken  to,  and  gravely  hinted  that  the 
streets  were  full  of  rumors  of  his  approaching  nuptials ; 
but  he  paid  no  attention  to  these  banters,  nor  did  he  now, 
except  to  give  a  little  grunt  of  contempt  for  any  one  so 
foolish  as  to  marry. 

"  Why,  bless  me,  Davy,"  Armsby  said,  laying  down  his 
knife  and  fork  in  astonishment ;  "  how  bald  you  are  becom 
ing!  Let  me  see  the  back  of  your  head." 

Silas  turned  his  back  to  his  employer's  husband,  and 
looked  up  at  the  ceiling. 


THE   "APEOX  AND  PASSWORD."  105 

"  It 's  coming ;  you  will  be  as  bald  as  a  plate  in  a  year. 
But  we  must  all  expect  it ;  fortune  has  no  favorites  in  this 
respect.  I  know  a  man  who  does  not  mistreat  his  wife, 
but  I  never  knew  one  who  was  n't  bald.  You  might  as 
wrell  quit  washing  your  head  in  salt  water,  Davy ;  for  it 
will  do  no  good." 

The  facts  were  that  Davy  gave  no  sign  of  approaching 
baldness ;  but  Armsby,  being  very  bald  himself,  was 
always  trying  to  discover  that  other  people's  hair  was 
falling  out. 

"  Better  remain  single,  though,"  he  continued,  referring 
to  matrimony  again,  "  than  to  marry  a  woman  and  mis 
treat  her.  All  the  men  are  unjust  to  their  wives,  barring 
the  honorable  exception  just  named ;  therefore  it  has 
always  been  my  policy  to  make  Mrs.  Armsby  a  notable 
exception.  •  Is  there  another  woman  in  the  Bend  who 
handles  all  the  money,  and  does  exactly  as  she  pleases  ? 
You  are  around  a  good  bit ;  do  you  know  of  another  ?  " 

Davy  thought  to  himself  that  she  was  entitled  to  the 
privilege  of  handling  the  money,  since  she  earned  it  all, 
besides  supporting  a  vagrant  husband  ;  but  he  said  nothing, 
for  Silas  was  not  a  talkative  man. 

"  Whatever  she  does  is  entirely  satisfactory  to  me," 
continued  the  model  husband.  "I  never  complain;  in 
deed,  I  find  much  to  admire.  There  is  not  another 
woman  like  her  in  the  world,  and  it  contains  an  awful  lot 
of  people." 

Mrs.  Armsby  appeared  from  the  kitchen  at  this  moment, 
and,  greeting  her  husband  pleasantly,  really  seemed 
charmed  with  his  presence.  While  she  was  looking  after 
his  wants,  he  told  her  of  his  hunting  that  day ;  how  he 
had  made  more  double  shots  than  any  of  his  companions ; 
how  his  dog  had  proved,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  he 
was  the  very  best  in  the  country,  as  he  had  always  con- 


106  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

tended  ;  how  tired  and  hungry  he  was,  and  how  fortunate 
it  was  that  there  was  no  lodge  that  night,  as  in  that  event 
he  would  have  to  be  present. 

His  wife  finally  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  again,  to 
arrange  for  the  first  meal  of  the  next  day,  and  Arrasby 
said  to  Davy,  — 

"  Poor  woman,  she  has  so  little  to  occupy  her  mind  that 
she  has  gone  into  the  kitchen  to  watch  Jennie  peel  the 
potatoes.  If  business  was  not  so  dull  —  you  say  it  is  dull ; 
I  know  nothing  about  it  myself  —  I  would  hire  a  compan 
ion  for  her ;  someone  to  read  to  her,  and  walk  about  with 
her  during  the  day.  It 's  too  bad." 

Unfortunately  for  the  patrons  of  the  Apron-and-Pass- 
word,  Armsby  had  been  to  New  York ;  and  though  he  had 
remained  but  two  days,  since  his  return  lie  had  pretended 
to  a  knowledge  of  the  metropolis  which  was  marvellous. 
When  a  New  York  man  was  mentioned,  Armsby  pre 
tended  to  know  him  intimately,  telling  cheerful  anecdotes 
of  how  their  acquaintance  began  and  ended.  Whenever 
a  New  York  institution  was  referred  to,  he  was  familiar 
with  it,  almost  to  intimacy;  and  a  few  of  the  Davy's 
Bend  people  amused  themselves  by  inventing  fictitious 
names  and  places  in  New  York,  and  inducing  Armsby  to 
profess  a  knowledge  of  them,  which  he  did  with  cheer 
ful  promptness. 

He  never  neglected  an  opportunity  to  talk  about  his 
trip,  therefore  when  he  put  his  chair  back  from  the 
table,  and  engaged  in  quiet  meditation,  Silas  felt  sure 
he  was  about  to  introduce  the  subject  in  a  new  way ; 
for  Armsby  was  a  very  ingenious  as  well  as  a  very  lazy 
man. 

"You  ought  to  wear  the  apron,  Silas,"  Mr.  Armsby 
said,  looking  at  Silas  with  the  greatest  condescension  and 
pity ;  "  but  it  would  be  dreadful  if  your  application  should 


THE  "APRON  AND  PASSWORD."       107 

be  greeted  with  the  blacks.  I  don't  recommend  that  you 
try  it,  mind,  for  that  is  not  allowed,  and  the  records  will 
show  that  we  lodge  men  have  so  much  regard  for  princi 
ple  that  it  has  never  been  done ;  but  it  is  something  that 
everyone  should  think  about,  sooner  or  later.  Only  the 
very  best  men  wear  this  emblem  of  greatness.  But  if 
you  have  faults,  I  should  advise  you  not  to  run  the  risk 
of  being  humiliated,  for  the  members  are  veiy  particular. 
A  lazy  man,  or  a  shiftless  man,  or  a  bad  man  of  any  kind, 
cannot  get  in ;  and  when  a  man  belongs  to  a  lodge,  it  can 
be  depended  upon  that  he  is  as  near  right  as  they  make 
them.  This  is  the  reason  we  must  be  particular  in  admit 
ting  new  members.  Reputation  is  at  stake  ;  for,  once  you 
are  in,  the  others  stand  by  you  with  their  lives  and 
their  sacred  honor.  There 's  nothing  like  it." 

The  landlord  occupied  himself  a  moment  in  pleasant 
thought  of  the  lodges,  in  connection  with  their  cheapness 
and  general  utility,  and  then  continued,  after  smiling  in 
a  gratified  way  over  his  own  importance  in  the  lodge 
connection,  — 

"  When  I  first  went  to  New  York  I  became  acquainted 
with  the  very  best  people  immediately ;  for  every  man  who 
wears  the  apron  has  confidence  in  every  other  man  who 
wears  it;  each  knows  that  the  other  has  been  selected 
from  the  masses  with  care,  and  they  trust  each  other  to 
the  fullest  extent.  One  day  I  went  over  into — " 

Armsby  could  not  remember  names,  and  he  snapped  his 
fingers  now  in  vexation. 

"  It  is  strange  I  am  unable  to  name  the  town,"  he  said ; 
"  I  am  as  familiar  with  it  as  I  am  with  my  own  stable. 
Well,  no  matter;  anyway  it  is  a  big  suburb,  and  you 
reach  it  by  crossing  the  — " 

Again  he  stopped,  and  tried  to  recall  the  name  of  the 
bridge  he  had  crossed,  and  the  city  he  had  visited,  but  to 


108  THE  MYSTEKY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

no  avail;  though  he  rapped  his  head  soundly  with  his 
knuckles,  for  its  bad  behavior,  and  got  up  to  walk  up  ami 
down  the  room. 

"  If  I  should  forget  your  name,  or  Mrs.  Armsby's,  it 
would  not  be  more  remarkable,"  he  continued,  at  last, 
giving  up  in  despair.  "  I  was  brought  up  in  sight  of 
them ;  but  what  I  started  o\\t  to  say  was,  that  I  walked 
into  a  bank  one  day,  and  the  fine-looking  man  who  was  at 
the  counter  looked  at  me,  at  first,  with  the  greatest  sus 
picion,  thinking  I  was  a  robber,  no  doubt,  until  I  gave 
him  a  certain  sign.  You  should  have  seen  the  change  in 
his  manner !  He  came  through  a  little  door  at  the  side, 
and  shaking  hands  with  me  in  a  certain  way,  known  only 
to  those  on  the  inside,  took  me  into  a  private  office  in  the 
rear,  where  a  number  of  other  fine-looking  gentlemen 
were  seated  around  a  table. 

" '  President  Judd,'  he  said  to  them,  '  this  gentleman 
wears  the  apron.' 

"  All  the  elegant  gentlemen  were  delighted  to  see  me. 
It  was  not  feigned,  either,  for  it  was  genuine  delight ;  and 
a  controversy  sprang  up  as  to  which  of  them  should  give 
his  time  to  my  entertainment  while  in  the  city,  though  I 
protested  that  I  was  so  well  acquainted  that  I  could  get 
along  very  well  alone.  But  they  insisted  upon  it,  and 
when  they  began  to  quarrel  rather  fiercely  about  it,  I  gave 
them  a  sign  (which  reminded  them  of  their  pledge  to  be 
brothers),  whereupon  they  were  all  good-natured  at  once, 
and  one  of  them  said,  — 

" '  Thank  you  for  reminding  us  of  our  duty,  brother ; 
the  best  of  us  will  occasionally  forget.  Will  you  do  us 
the  favor  to  pick  out  one  of  our  number  to  show  you 
ahout,  and  make  your  stay  in  the  city  pleasant  ? ' ' 

Davy  noticed  that  Mrs.  Armsby  was  listening  at  the 
kitchen  door,  though  Armsby  did  not  know  it,  for  his 


THE  "APRON  AND  PASSWORD."       109 

back  was  turned  toward  her ;  but  he  did  not  mention  the 
circumstance. 

"I  liked  the  looks  of  Mr.  Jiidd,"  Armsby  continued, 
"  so  I  said  that  if  the  other  brothers  would  not  take 
offence,  I  would  like  his  company.  The  others  said,  '  Oh, 
not  at  all,'  all  of  them  making  the  sign  to  be  brothers  at 

7  O  O 

the  same  time,  and  President  Judd  at  once  began  arrang 
ing  his  business  so  he  could  go  out  with  me,  not  neglect 
ing  to  put  a  big  roll  of  money  in  his  pocket ;  and, 
though  it  was  very  big,  the  others  said  it  wasn't  half 
enough." 

Davy  believed  everything  the  people  saw  fit  to  tell  him, 
and  vouched  for  the  truth  of  it  when  he  repeated  it  him 
self,  and  was  very  much  interested  in  what  Armsby  was 
saying. 

"  Well,  sir,  when  we  went  out,  the  sign  was  everything. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  potent  it  was.  We  made  it 
when  we  wanted  a  carriage,  and  the  driver  regarded  it  as 
a  favor  to  carry  us  for  nothing ;  we  made  it  when  we 
were  hungry,  and  it  assured  us  the  greatest  attention  at 
the  hotels,  which  were  nothing  like  this,  but  larger  — 
very  much  larger." 

Davy  gave  evidence  of  genuine  astonishment  on  learn 
ing  that  there  were  hotels  larger  than  the  "Apron  and 
Password ; "  but  as  the  proprietor  himself  had  made  the 
statement,  he  presumed  it  must  be  true,  though  it  was 
certainly  very  astonishing. 

"  I  can't  think  of  the  name  of  it  now,  but  they  have  a 
railroad  in  the  second  story  of  the  street  there,  and 
instead  of  collecting  fare,  when  the  proprietors  came 
around  they  put  money  in  our  outside  pockets,  thinking 
we  might  meet  someone  who  was  not  a  brother.  Judd 
remained  with  me  five  days,  taking  me  to  his  own  resi 
dence  at  night,  which  was  twice  as  big  as  The  Locks,  and 


110  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

-when  we  finally  parted,  he  loaded  me  down  with  pres 
ents,  and  shed  tears.  Next  to  the  sign,  the  apron  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world ;  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  wear 
it." 

Armsby  wandered  leisurely  out  into  the  office  soon 
after,  probably  to  smoke  the  cigars  his  wife  kept  there 
in  a  case  for  sale,  when  Mrs.  Armsby  came  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  sat  down,  looking  mortified  and  distressed. 

"  Silas,"  she  said,  "  don't  believe  a  word  Armsby  has 
said  to  you,  or  ever  will  say, 'on  this  subject.  Before  he 
became  a  slave  to  this  dreadful  lodge  habit,  he  was  a 
truthful  man,  but  you  can't  believe  a  word  he  says  now. 
Do  you  know  what  they  do  at  the  lodges?" 

Davy  shook  his  head,  for  of  course  no  one  except  a 
member  could  know. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  then.  They  tie  cooks'  aprons  around 
their  waists,  put  fools'  caps  on  their  heads,  and  quarrel  as 
to  whether  the  hailing  sign,  or  the  aid  sign,  or  whatever 
it  is,  is  made  by  holding  up  one  finger  when  the  right 
thumb  is  touching  the  right  ear,  or  whether  it  is  two  or 
three  or  four  fingers.  It  is  all  about  as  ridiculous  as  this, 
and  my  advice  to  you  is,  never  join.  Armsby  has  been 
talking  to  you  a  good  deal  about  the  matter  lately,  and 
I  suspect  he  wants  the  fun  of  initiating  you,  which  is 
accompanied  with  all  sorts  of  tricks,  which  gives  them 
opportunity  to  make  fun  of  you  from  behind  their  paper 
masks." 

Since  it  was  impossible  to  believe  both  stories,  Silas 
made  up  his  mind  to  ask  Tug's  opinion, —  Tug  would 
know,  —  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  Some  of  them  wear  swords,"  Mrs.  Armsby  went  on 
to  say ;  "  but,  bless  you,  they  can't  draw  them,  and  even 
if  they  should  succeed  in  getting  them  out,  they  couldn't 
put  them  back  in  their  scabbards  again.  Armsby  came 


THE  "APRON  AND  PASSWORD."       Ill 

home  one  night  wearing  his  sword,  and  in  this  very  room 
he  took  it  out  to  make  a  show  of  himself,  and  was  so 
awkward  with  it  that  he  broke  half  the  dishes  on  the 
dresser,  besides  upsetting  the  lamp  and  wounding  me  on 
the  hand.  To  complete  his  disgrace,  he  was  compelled 
to  ask  me  to  put  it  in  its  case  again ;  but  I  fear  the  lesson 
did  the  misguided  man  little  good,  for  he  has  been  as  bad 
as  ever  since.  But  while  these  men  might  be  pardoned  for 
their  foolishness  if  they  remained  in  their  halls,  they  are 
utterly  unpardonable  for  disgracing  their  wives  and  friends 
by  appearing  on  the  street,  which  they  occasionally  do, 
dressed  in  more  fantastic  fashion  than  ever.  If  you 
should  join,  you  would  be  expected  to  do  this,  and  after 
one  appearance  you  could  never  look  a  sensible  person  in 
the  face  again,  unless  you  are  lost  to  all  sense  of  self- 
respect.  Besides,  it  is  expensive ;  my  husband  keeps  me 
poor  in  attending  grand  lodges,  and  most  of  the  failures 
are  caused  by  neglecting  business  to  talk  lodge.  My  only 
fear  is  that  my  misguided  husband  will  finally  consider  it 
his  duty  to  kill  somebody  for  telling  about  the  signs  and 
grips,  and  then  we  will  all  be  disgraced.  It  is  your  mis 
fortune  as  well  as  mine,  Silas,  that  Armsby  is  not  a 
drunkard.  Drunkards  are  occasionally  reformed,  and  are 
of  some  use  in  their  sober  intervals;  but  a  lodge  man 
never  reforms.  If  a  lodge  man  engages  in  business,  he 
fails,  for  he  does  not  attend  to  it;  but  a  drinking  man 
admits  that  he  is  doing  wrong,  and  sometimes  succeeds  in 
his  efforts  to  do  better;  whereas  a  lodge  man  argues  all  the 
time  that  his  foolishness  is  good  sense,  and  therefore  don't 
try  to  get  out  of  the  way.  Compared  to  me,  Mrs. 
Whittle  is  a  very  fortunate  woman." 

Mrs.  Armsby  got  up  at  this  and  went  out;  and  as  Silas 
was  preparing  to  follow,  he  heard  a  whistle  which  he 
recognized  at  once  as  TW's.  Whenever  Tug  had  use 


112       THE  MYSTERY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

for  Silas  early  in  the  evening,  he  had  a  habit  of  whistling 
him  out,  since  he  never  came  into  the  hotel  until  his 
friend  had  possession. 

Silas  at  once  put  on  his  hat  and  went  down  to  the 
wagon  yard,  where  he  found  Tug  impatiently  waiting, 
who  started  off  at  a  rapid  swinging  gait  toward  the 
lower  end  of  the  town  and  the  river  as  soon  as  Silas 
caught  sight  of  him.  "When  the  pair  travelled,  Davy 
always  lagged  behind,  as  he  did  in  this  instance ;  for  in 
the  presence  of  genius  like  Tug's,  he  felt  that  his  place 
was  in  the  rear.  Others  might  doubt  the  ability  or  even 
the  honesty  of  his  friend,  but  Silas  had  no  doubt  that 
Tug  would  some  day  be  a  wonderful  man,  and  prove  that 
everything  said  to  his  discredit  was  untrue.  It  was  a 
favorite  saying  of  his  that  when  he  "  came  into  his  own," 
he  would  move  about,  with  the  magnificence  of  a  circus 
procession,  on  the  back  of  an  elephant,  with  a  brass  band 
in  front  and  a  company  of  trumpeters  behind ;  and  Silas 
was  content  to  wait.  Tug  occasionally  illustrated  this 
idea  now  as  he  walked  along,  by  swinging  and  flinging  his 
body  about  as  those  who  ride  on  elephants  do,  and  it 
occurred  to  Silas  that  "his  own"  must  have  arrived  by 
boat,  and  that  he  was  going  after  it ;  for  he  walked  rapidly 
toward  the  river  without  looking  around. 

Tug  had  not  spoken  a  word  since  setting  out,  and  after 
reaching  the  street  which  led  down  to  the  crazy  collection 
of  houses  where  he  lived,  he  travelled  down  that  way  a 
while,  and  at  last  turned  off  toward  the  right,  following 
the  course  of  the  river  through  alleys  and  back  yards,  and 
over  fences  and  gaping  sloughs,  until  at  last  he  stopped 
near  an  old  warehouse,  which  had  been  used  a  great  many 
years  before  in  storing  freight  arriving  by  the  boats 
when  the  Bend  was  an  important  town.  It  was  entirely 
deserted  now,  and  as  the  two  men  stopped  in  its  shadow, 


THE   "APRON  AND  PASSWORD."  113 

Tug  gave  his  companion  to  understand  that  he  must  be 
very  quiet  and  secret. 

After  they  had  blown  awhile,  Tug  began  crawling 
around  the  building  on  his  hands  and  knees,  followed 
by  his  companion,  occasionally  raising  his  hand  as  a  warn 
ing  when  they  both  stopped  to  listen.  When  Tug  had 
reached  the  other  end  of  the  warehouse,  he  motioned 
Davy  to  come  up  to  him ;  and  when  he  did  so  this  is  what 
he  saw :  — 

A  light  skiff  tied  to  the  bank,  with  the  oars  laid  across 
it,  and  a  woman  seated  in  the  stern  —  the  woman  they 
had  seen  when  they  followed  the  shadow  down  the  river, 
after  its  appearance  at  Allan  Dorris's  window.  They  were 
certain  it  was  the  same  woman,  because  she  wore  a  water 
proof  cloak,  as  she  did  on  the  night  when  they  followed 
the  shadow  down  the  river,  and  she  was  very  small.  Her 
back  was  turned  toward  them,  and  she  was  motionless  as 
a  statue ;  and  realizing  that  as  her  ears  were  covered 
with  the  waterproof  she  could  not  hear  well,  the  two  men 
arose  to  their  feet  after  a  careful  inspection,  and  walked 
back  to  the  other  end  of  the  building. 

"  I  intend  to  steal  her,"  Tug  whispered  into  his  com 
panion's  ear,  at  the  same  time  reaching  down  into  Davy's 
pocket  and  taking  out  a  handkerchief,  which  he  arranged 
in  his  hand  like  a  sling  ready  for  use. 


CHAPTER  X. 
TUG  WHITTLE'S  BOOTY. 

A  FTER  resting  a  while,  and  looking  carefully  around 
-£-•-  to  make  sure  that  they  were  not  watched,  Tug  and 
Silas  crawled  cautiously  back  to  the  bank  which  over 
looked  the  boat  and  its  singular  occupant,  and  after  warn 
ing  his  companion  to  remain  where  he  was  by  shaking  his 
hand  at  him  like  a  club,  Tug  began  to  climb  down  the 
bank,  feeling  every  step  as  he  went  with  the  cunning 
stealth  of  a  tiger.  Gradually  he  worked  his  way  to  the 
water's  edge  ;  so  careful  was  he,  that  even  Silas,  watching 
him  with  breathless  interest  above,  could  not  hear  his  step, 
and  at  last  he  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  water.  The  boat 
was  in  an  eddy,  floating  easily  about,  and  when  it  came 
within  Tug's  reach,  he  clapped  the  handkerchief  over  the 
woman's  mouth,  tied  it  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head, 
and  came  clambering  up  the  bank  with  her  on  his  shoul 
ders.  Without  saying  a  word,  he  started  to  retrace  his 
steps,  only  stopping  once  or  twice  to  see  that  his  booty 
was  not  smothering,  when,  finding  the  little  woman  all 
right,  he  went  on  over  the  fences  and  sloughs,  and  through 
the  alleys  and  yards,  until  he  entered  his  own  door. 

"  Now  then,  sister,"  he  said,  putting  the  woman  on  her 
feet,  and  breathing  heavily  from  his  exercise,  "  Tell  us 
who  you  are.  Davy,  make  a  light." 

Silas  came  lagging  in  about  this  time,  and  did  as  he  was 
told,  though  he  was  a  long  time  about  it,  for  the  matches 
were  damp,  and  the  flame  slow  in  coming  up.  Everything 
114 


TUG  WHITTLE'S  BOOTY.  115 

seemed  to  be  damp  in  Davy's  Bend,  and  it  was  no  wonder 
that  the  matches  were  slow  and  sleepy,  like  the  other  in 
habitants  of  the  town  ;  therefore  they  came  to  life  with  a 
sputtering  protest  against  being  disturbed.  While  Silas 
was  rubbing  them  into  good  humor,  Tug  was  closely 
watching  the  little  woman  with  his  great  eye,  and  getting 
his  breath ;  and  when  the  light  was  fairly  burning,  he 
went  over  to  her  side,  and  removed  the  handkerchief  from 
her  mouth. 

"  Gentlemen !  "  she  cried  out,  in  a  weak  voice,  as  soon 
as  she  could.  "  Gentlemen !  In  the  name  of  God !  I  ap 
peal  to  you  as  gentlemen !  " 

"  Don't  gentleman  me,"  Tug  said,  bringing  the  light 
over  to  look  at  the  woman's  face.  "  I  'm  not  a  gentleman ; 
I  'm  a  thief,  and  I  've  stolen  a  woman.  Nor  is  he  a  gen 
tleman;"  pointing  to  Davy,  and  holding  his  head  to  one 
side  to  get  a  bead  on  him.  "  He  's  the  greatest  scoundrel 
that  ever  lived.  Look  at  the  audacious  villain  now ! 
Look  at  him !  Did  you  ever  see  a  person  who  looked 
so  much  like  the  devil?  And  he  is  the  devil,  when  he 
gets  started.  He  's  keen  to  get  at  you  now,  and  I  '11  have 
trouble  with  him  if  you  are  at  all  unreasonable." 

Davy  looked  like  anything  but  a  villain  as  he  meekly 
watched  the  pair  from  the  other  side  of  the  room  ;  indeed, 
he  was  thinking  that  Tug  was  carrying  the  matter  entirely 
too  far,  and  was  becoming  alarmed.  But  Tug  did  not 
share  this  feeling  of  apprehension,  for  he  seemed  desper 
ately  in  earnest  as  he  held  the  lamp  close  to  the  woman's 
face,  who  tried  to  shield  it  from  his  sight  with  her  thin, 
trembling  hands,  and  cried  out  in  the  same  weak  voice  : 
"Gentlemen!  In  the  name  of  GodJ  I  appeal  to  you  as 
gentlemen  !  " 

A  very  small  woman,  with  shriveled,  face  and  shat 
features,  was  Tug's  booty,  and  she  trembled  violently  as 


116  THE  MYSTERY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

she  piteously  held  out  her  hands  to  the  two  men.  Tug 
thought  of  her  as  the  key  to  the  problem  he  had  been  at 
tempting  to  solve,  so  he  stood  between  her  and  the  door 
to  prevent  escape.  But  Silas  felt  sure  that  the  woman 
had  but  lately  risen  from  a  sick  bed  ;  for  she  was  weak  and 
trembling,  and  from  sitting  long  in  the  damp  river  air, 
there  was  a  distressed  and  painful  flush  in  her  face. 

"  Come  now,  sister,"  Tug  said,  seating  himself  in  front 
of  her,  and  frowning  like  a  pirate.  "  Tell  us  what  you 
know,  and  be  carried  back  to  your  boat.  If  you  refuse  to 
do  it,  we  will  take  you  on  a  journey  to  the  Hedgepath 
graveyard,  in  the  woods  over  the  river,  where  we  will 
erect  a  stone  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  an  Obstinate 
Woman.  Which  will  you  have?  Use  your  tongue; 
which  will  you  have?" 

But  the  woman  made  no  other  reply  than  to  appeal  to 
them  as  gentlemen,  in  the  name  of  God,  and  cry,  and 
wring  her  hands. 

"  In  case  you  ever  see  that  foxy  companion  of  yourn 
again,  which  is  extremely  doubtful,  for  I  have  a  compan 
ion  who  murders  for  the  love  of  it  —  (Here,  now,  take 
your  hand  off  that  knife,  will  you,"  Tug  said,  by  way  of 
parenthesis  to  Silas,  looking  at  him  sharply.  Then  going 
over  to  him,  he  pretended  to  take  a  knife  out  of  Davy's 
inside  coat  pocket,  and  hide  it  in  the  cupboard).  "  If  you 
ever  see  your  friend  Sneak  again,  say  to  him  that  I  intend 
to  get  his  head.  He  is  bothering  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I 
intend  to  create  a  commotion  inside  of  him  for  it." 

Tug  walked  over  to  the  table  where  the  lamp  stood,  and, 
taking  the  package  of  poison  from  his  pocket,  carefully 
divided  it  into  two  doses ;  a  large  one  for  a  man,  and  the 
other  for  a  smaller  person,  probably  a  woman.  He  also 
took  occasion,  being  near  to  Davy,  to  whisper  to  him  that 
the  woman  reminded  him  of  his  wife's  sister  Sis. 


TUG  WHITTLE'S  BOOTY.  117 

"  You  are  evidently  a  married  woman,  sister,"  the  bold 
rascal  said,  seating  himself  in  front  of  his  captive,  and 
looking  at  her  in  the  dignified  manner  which  distinguished 
him.  "  I  suppose  you  were  very  handsome  as  a  girl,  and 
the  men  fell  desperately  in  love  with  you,  and  were  very 
miserable  in  consequence.  But  I  will  let  you  into  a  secret ; 
you  are  bravely  over  your  beauty  now.  I  suppose  your 
mother  braided  your  hair,  and  did  all  the  work,  that  your 
hands  might  be  as  pretty  as  your  face  ;  and  certainly  she 
believed  that  while  the  boys  might  possibly  fail  in  life, 
you  would  be  all  right,  and  marry  a  prince,  and  repay  her 
for  her  kindness.  Your  poor  mother  rented  a  piano w  for 
yon,  too,  I  reckon,  and  hired  you  a  teacher ;  and  when  you 
could  drum  a  little,  she  thought  you  could  play  a  great 
deal,  and  felt  repaid  for  all  her  trouble,  believing  that  you 
would  turn  out  well,  and  make  your  brothers  feel  ashamed 
of  themselves  for  being  so  worthless.  And  while  I  don't 
know  it,  I  believe  that  she  paid  five  dollars  to  somebody 
to  make  you  a  artist,  and  that  you  painted  roses  and  holly 
hocks  on  saucers  and  plates,  which  your  poor  mother,  in 
the  kindness  of  her  heart,  recognized,  and  greatly  admired. 
I  shall  believe  this  as  long  as  I  live,  for  you  look  like  a 
painter  and  a  pianowist  out  of  practice." 

This  train  of  thought  amused  Mr.  Whittle  so  much 
that  he  paused  as  if  to  laugh;  but  he  apparently  thought 
better  of  it,  though  his  scalp  crawled  over  on  his  fore 
head,  —  an  oddity  which  distinguished  him  when  he  was 
amused. 

"  Did  your  poor  mother  get  to  sleep  peacefully  at  night, 
after  working  all  day  for  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Whittle 
fiercely.  "You  don't  answer;  but  you  know  she  didn't. 
You  know  she  spent  the  night  in  wrangling  with  your 
father  to  induce  him  to  give  her  money  that  she  might 
buy  you  more  ribbons  and  millinery  and  dry  goods;  and 


118  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

kid  gloves,  probably,  although  your  brother  Bill  was  out 
at  his  toes,  and  hadn't  so  much  as  a  cotton  handkercher; 
and  how  your  mother  went  on  when  your  husband  came 
courting  you  !  He  was  n't  good  enough  for  you  then, 
whoever  he  was ;  though  I  '11  bet  he  thinks  he 's  too  good 
for  you  now,  whoever  he  is ;  and  what  a  time  you  must 
have  had  borrowing  silverware  and  chairs  for  the  wed 
ding!  I've  been  married,  and  I  know.  Your  tired 
mother  hoped  that  when  her  children  grew  up  they 
would  relieve  her,  and  love  her,  and  be  good  to  her ;  but 
I  '11  bet  you  find  fault  because  she  did  n't '  do '  more  for  you ; 
and  that  your  brother  Bill,  who  ran  away  because  you  had 
all  the  pie  in  the  house,  is  taking  care  of  her,  providin' 
she  aint  dead  from  bother  and  too  much  work,  which  is 
likely.  And  after  all  this  trouble  in  your  behalf,  look  at 
you  now ! " 

The  little  woman  seemed  to  be  paying  some  attention 
to  what  he  was  saying,  for  she  looked  at  him  timidly  out 
of  the  corners  of  her  black  eyes  a  few  times,  and  occasion 
ally  forgot  to  wring  her  hands  and  cry. 

"  Look  at  you  now,  I  say !  Your  health  has  gone  off  after 
your  beauty,  for  you  seem  to  have  neither  with  you,  and 
I  find  you  wandering  around  at  night  with  a  Thief.  A 
great  fall  you've  had,  sister,  providin'  you  ever  were 
young  and  pretty,  for  I  was  never  acquainted  with  a 
worse-looking  woman  than  you  are  ;  and  if  you  knew  my 
wife  you  would  be  very  indignant,  for  she  has  the  repu 
tation  of  being  a  Terror  for  looks.  When  I  was  younger 
I  fell  in  love  with  every  girl  I  met,  and  had  no  relief  until 
they  married ;  then  I  soon  got  over  it,  for  you  ought 
to  know  how  they  fade  under  such  circumstances ;  but 
you  are  worse  than  the  rest  of  them ;  you  are  so  ugly  that 
I  feel  sorry  for  you.  Honestly,  I  wonder  that  you  do  not 
blush  in  my  presence ;  and  I  am  not  handsome,  God  knows. 


TUG  WHITTLE'S  BOOTY.  119 

I  really  feel  sorry  for  you,  but  in  connection  with  your 
friend  Prowler  you  are  annoying  an  amiable  and  a  worthy 
gentleman,  who  happens  to  be  a  friend  of  Mr.  Blood's,  the 
party  sitting  opposite  you;  and  I  fear  he  does  not  feel 
sorry  for  you.  A  little  less  of  that  word  'gentlemen,' 
sister,  if  you  please."  . 

The  woman  was  appealing  to  them  again  as  before : 
"  Gentlemen !  In  the  name  of  God !  I  appeal  to  you." 

"  Promise  to  take  your  friend  Prowler,  and  leave  this 
country,"  Mr.  Whittle  continued,  "  and  never  return,  and 
you  shall  go  free  ;  but  if  you  refuse  —  Blood  !  " 

Tug  sprang  up  and  glared  savagely  at  his  meek  little 
partner,  at  the  same  time  advancing  toward  him. 

"  You  sha'n't  satisfy  that  devilish  disposition  of  yourn 
by  shooting  a  woman  in  the  back  when  Pm  around,  you 
cut-throat^"  he  said.  "  Have  n't  I  always  been  ready  to 
join  you  in  putting  men  out  of  the  way,  and  have  n't  I 
enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  it  with  you?  Then  why  do  you 
want  to  take  the  credit  of  this  job  to  yourself,  and  enjoy 
it  alone  ?  You  must  wait,  Blood,  until  she  speaks.  We 
may  forgive  her,  providin'  she  speaks  up  cheerful  and 
don't  attempt  to  deceive  us." 

Again  Tug  pretended  to  take  a  dangerous  weapon  from 
his  companion,  standing  between  Davy  and  the  prisoner 
while  about  it ;  after  which  he  regarded  him  for  a  few 
moments  in  contemptuous  silence. 

"  It 's  your  tongue,  sister,  and  not  your  tears,  as  will  do 
you  good  in  this  difficulty,"  Tug  said,  in  answer  to  a  fresh 
burst  of  grief  from  the  woman.  "I'll  give  you  five 
minutes  to  decide  between  tongue  and  tears.  At  the  end 
of  that  time,  if  it 's  tears,  the  cravings  of  that  bad  man  in 
the  corner  shall  be  satisfied.  Blood,  where  is  the  watch 
you  took  from  the  store  ?  Hain't  got  it  ?  My  guess  is  that 
you  've  lost  it  gambling,  as  usual.  Well,  I  '11  count  three 


120       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

hundred  seconds,  sister,  since  we  have  no  watch.  One, 
two,  three  ;  here  we  go." 

Tug  looked  reverently  up  at  the  ceiling  ;  and  appeared 
to  be  engaged  in  counting  for  two  or  three  minutes,  occa 
sionally  looking  at  the  woman  and  then  at  Silas,  who 
thought  Tug  had  been  counting  at  least  half  an  hour 
already. 

"  Two  hundred  and  twenty-one,  two  hundred  and 
twenty-two,  two  hundred  and  twenty-three,"  he  counted 
aloud.  "  Fifth  call,  sister,  the  time  is  going ;  two  hundred 
and  twenty-four,  two  hundred  and  —  " 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  strange  interruption  to  the 
proceedings.  A  tall  man  wearing  a  rubber  coat,  which 
reached  below  his  knees,  opened  the  door,  and,  leaving  it 
open,  stood  just  upon  the  inside,  carrying  a  pistol  in  his 
right  hand,  which  hung  by  his  side. 

"  The  shadow ! "  both  men  thought  at  once  ;  and  very 
determined  and  ugly  looked  the  shadow,  with  his  long, 
sallow  face,  and  dark  moustache. 

"  Alice,"  he  said  to  the  woman,  "  come  out." 

The  woman  quickly  jumped  up,  and  hurried  outside. 
The  shadow  followed,  backing  out  like  a  lion-tamer 
leaving  a  cage,  and  closing  the  door  after  him.  But 
while  he  stood  inside  the  door,  although  he  was  there  only 
a  moment,  both  men  noticed  a  strange  peculiarity.  The 
upper  part  of  his  left  ear  was  gone,  —  cut  off  clean,  as  if 
with  a  knife;  and  this  peculiarity  was  so  unusual  that 
they  remarked  it  more  than  his  face.  The  circumstance 
gave  them  both  an  impression  that  the  shadow  was  a  des 
perate  man,  and  that  he  was  accustomed  to  fierce  brawls. 

Tug  and  Silas  looked  at  each  other  in  blank  dismay  a 
long  time  after  the  mysterious  pair  had  disappeared,  not 
venturing  to  look  out,  fearing  it  might  be  dangerous ;  but 
finally  Tug  said,  — 


TUG  WHITTLE'S  BOOTY.  121 

"  Silas,  I  must  have  a  gun.  Do  you  happen  to  have 
one?" 

Silas  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  I  must  steal  one,  for  I  need  a  gun.  The 
shadow  looks  so  much  like  an  uncle  of  my  wife's  that  I 
am  more  determined  than  ever  to  kill  him." 

Whereupon  he  went  over  to  the  table,  emptied  the  two 
packages  of  poison  on  to  the  floor,  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


r  I  ^HERE  is  a  wide  and  populous  world  outside  of 
-i-  Davy's  Bend,  from  which  Allan  Dorris  recently 
came ;  let  the  whispers  in  the  air,  which  frighten  every 
man  with  their  secrets,  answer  why  he  had  resolved  never 
again  to  see  Annie  Benton. 

During  his  residence  in  Davy's  Bend  he  had  met  the 
girl  frequently,  usually  at  the  stone  church  near  his 
house,  where  she  came  to  practise ;  and  after  every  meet 
ing  he  became  more  than  ever  convinced,  after  thinking 
about  it,  —  and  he  thought  about  it  a  great  deal,  —  that  if 
their  acquaintance  continued,  there  would  come  a  time 
when  he  would  find  it  difficult  to  quit  her  society.  The 
pleasure  he  enjoyed  in  the  company  of  the  pretty  organist 
was  partly  due  to  the  circumstance  that  she  was  always 
pleased  at  his  approach,  although  she  tried  to  disguise  it ; 
but  beyond  this,  —  a  long  way  beyond  this,  —  there  was 
reason  why  he  should  avoid  her ;  for  the  girl's  sake,  not 
his  own. 

He  repeated  this  often  to  himself,  as  though  he  were  a 
desperate  man  ready  to  engage  in  any  desperate  measure ; 
but  his  manner  visibly  softened  when  he  thought  of  the 
pretty  girl  whose  ways  were  so  engaging,  innocent,  and 
frank.  He  knew  himself  so  well,  —  the  number  of  times  he 
had  gone  over  the  story  of  his  life,  in  his  own  mind,  since 
coming  to  The  Locks  even,  would  have  run  up  into  the 
122 


THE   WHISPERS   IN  THE   AIR.  123 

hundreds ;  therefore  he  knew  himself  very  well  indeed,  — 
that  he  felt  in  honor  bound  to  give  up  his  acquaintance 
with  her,  although  it  cost  him  a  keen  pang  of  regret, 
this  determination  to  hear  the  music  no  more,  and  never 
again  see  the  player. 

Avoiding  even  a  look  at  the  church,  which  was  a 
reminder  of  how  much  pleasure  he  had  found  in  Davy's 
Bend,  and  how  much  misery  he  would  probably  find 
there  in  the  future,  he  passed  out  of  the  iron  gate  of  The 
Locks,  and  set  his  face  toward  the  quiet  country,  where  he 
hoped  to  walk  until  his  body  would  call  for  rest  at  night, 
and  permit  him  to  sleep ;  a  blessing  that  had  been  denied 
him  of  late  more  than  before  he  knew  Annie  Benton,  and 
when  he  thought  that  Davy's  Bend  contained  people  only 
fit  to  be  avoided. 

But  he  was  glad  that  he  had  resolved  never  to  see  the 
girl  again,  —  for  her  sake,  not  his  own. 

He  had  made  this  resolve  after  a  struggle  with  himself, 
thinking  of  the  strange  fatality  that  had  made  duty  pain 
ful  throughout  his  entire  life ;  and  he  walked  toward  the 
country  because  he  believed  the  girl  was  in  the  direction 
of  the  town ;  probably  seated  in  the  church  at  that  mo 
ment,  watching  the  door  for  his  approach.  She  was  a 
comfort  to  him,  therefore  he  must  avoid  her ;  but  this 
had  always  been  the  case  —  he  was  accustomed  to  being 
warned  that  he  was  an  intruder  whenever  he  entered  a 
pleasant  place. 

There  was  something  in  store  for  her  besides  a  life  of 
hiding  and  fear,  and  an  unknown  grave  at  last,  with  a 
fictitious  name  on  the  headboard ;  and  he  would  not  cross 
a  path  which  led  toward  happiness  for  one  he  so  much 
admired. 

Thus  he  argued  to  himself  as  he  walked  along;  but 
when  he  remembered  how  dull  his  life  would  be  should 


124       THE  MYSTEKY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

her  smile  never  come  into  it  again,  he  could  not  help 
shuddering. 

"  But  I  have  been  so  considerate  of  others,"  he  said 
aloud,  as  he  pursued  his  way,  "  that  even  the  worms  in 
my  path  impudently  expected  me  to  go  round  them,  and 
seemed  to  honestly  believe  me  unworthy  of  living  at  all  if 
I  did  not.  Let  me  not  show  a  lack  of  consideration  now 
that  my  heart  is  concerned." 

Above  his  house,  and  so  near  the  river  that  the  water 
rippled  at  its  base,  was  a  rugged  bluff,  separated  from  the 
town  by  a  deep  and  almost  impassable  ravine,  and  for 
this  reason  it  was  seldom  visited ;  Allan  Dorris  had  found 
it  during  his  first  month  in  the  town,  and  he  resolved 
to  visit  it  now,  and  get  the  full  benefit  of  the  sunshine 
and  delightful  air  of  the  perfect  summer  day. 

It  occurred  to  him  as  he  sat  down  to  rest,  after  making 
the  difficult  ascent,  that  he  would  like  to  build  a  house 
there,  and  live  in  it,  where  he  would  never  be  disturbed. 
But  did  he  want  solitude  ?  There  seemed  to  be  some 
question  of  this,  judging  from  the  look  of  doubt  on  his 
downcast  face.  "When  he  first  came  to  Davy's  Bend,  he 
believed  that  the  rewards  of  life  were  so  unsatisfactory 
that  all  within  his  reach  that  he  desired  was  his  own  com 
pany;  but  an  experience  of  a  month  had  satisfied  him  that 
solitude  would  not  do,  and  he  confessed  that  he  did  not 
know  what  he  wanted.  If  he  knew  what  it  was  his  heart 
craved,  he  believed  that  it  was  beyond  him,  and  unobtain 
able;  and  so  his  old  habit  of  thinking  was  resumed, 
though  he  could  never  tell  what  it  was  all  about.  Every 
thing  he  desired  was  impossible ;  that  within  his  reach 
was  distasteful  —  he  could  make  no  more  of  the  jumble  in 
his  brain,  and  finally  sat  with  a  vacant  stare  on  his  face, 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  the  vagrant  thoughts  which  gave 
him  a  headache  but  no  conclusions. 


THE   WHISPERS   IN  THE  AIR.  125 

Even  the  pure  air  and  the  bright  sunshine,  that  he 
thought  he  wanted  while  coming  along  the  road,  were  not 
satisfactory  now ;  and  as  he  started  to  walk  furiously  up 
the  hill,  to  tire  himself,  he  met  Annie  Benton  in  the  path 
he  was  following. 

She  had  been  gathering  wild  flowers,  and,  as  he  came 
upon  her,  she  was  so  intent  on  arranging  them  after  some 
sort  of  a  plan,  that  she  was  startled  when  he  stood  beside 
her. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  said  hurriedly,  instead  of 
returning  his  greeting.  "  I  intended  sending  you  these." 

Dorris  could  not  help  being  amused  that  he  had  en 
countered  the  girl  in  a  place  where  he  had  gone  to  avoid 
her,  but  there  was  evidence  in  his  light  laugh  that  he  was 
glad  of  it ;  so  he  seated  himself  on  a  boulder  beside  the 
path,  and  asked  what  she  had  been  thinking  ol  him. 

"  That  you  were  a  very  odd  man,"  she  answered 
frankly. 

"  That  has  always  been  a  complaint  against  me,"  he 
said,  with  a  tone  of  impatience.  "  I  think  I  have  never 
known  any  one  who  has  not  said,  during  the  course  of  our 
acquaintance,  that  I  was  '  odd  ; '  whatever  is  natural  in  me 
has  been  called  '  odd '  before.  If  I  wanted  bread,  and 
wad  not  satisfied  with  a  stone,  they  called  me  '  odd.'  The 
wishes  of  the  horse  that  has  a  prejudice  for  bein'g  bridled 
on  the  left  side  are  respected,  but  there  is  no  considera 
tion  for  a  man  who  cannot  be  contented  simply  because 
it  is  his  duty.  I  remember  that  we  had  a  horse  of  this 
description  in  our  family  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  if  he 
injured  any  one  who  failed  to  respect  his  wishes,  the  man 
was  blamed,  not  the  horse.  But  the  people  do  not  have 
equal  charity  for  a  man  who  is  not  content  when  circum 
stances  seem  to  demand  it  of  him,  no  difference  what  the 
circumstances  are,  or  how  repugnant  they  may  be  to  his 


126  THE   MYSTERY   OF   THE   LOCKS. 

taste.  89  you  were  finding  fault  with  me  ?  I  am  not 
surprised  at  it,  though  ;  most  people  do." 

The  girl  had  seated  herself  near  him,  and  was  busily 
engaged  in  arranging  the  flowers  until  he  inquired 
again,  — 

"  So  you  were  finding  fault  with  me?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "unless  it  was  finding  fault  to 
think  of  you  as  being  different  from  any  other  person  I 
have  ever  known.  It  was  not  a  very  serious  charge  to 
think  of  you  as  being  different  from  the  people  in 
Davy's  Bend." 

There  was  something  in  that,  for  they  were  not  the 
finest  people  in  the  world,  by  any  means ;  nor  could  the 
town  be  justly  held  responsible  for  all  their  faults,  as  they 
pretended. 

"  No,  it  is  not  serious,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  I  am  sorry  you 
are  looking  so  well,  for  I  am  running  away  from  you. 
It  would  be  easier,  were  you  less  becoming.  I  am  sorry 
you  are  not  ugly." 

There  was  a  look  of  wonder  in  the  girl's  face  that  made 
her  prettier  than  ever. 

"  Running  away  from  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  from  you,"  he  answered. 

She  began  arranging  the  flowers  again,  and  kept  her 
eyes  on  them  while  he  watched  her  face.  Dorris  thought 
of  himself  as  a  snake  watching  a  bird,  and  finally  looked 
down  the  river  at  the  ferry,  which  happened  to  be 
moving. 

"  Why?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Because  I  am  dangerous,"  he  replied,  with  a  flushed 
face.  "  You  should  run  away  when  you  see  me  approach, 
for  I  am  not  a  fit  companion  for  you.  I  have  nothing  to 
offer  that  you  ought  to  accept ;  even  my  attentions  are 
dangerous." 


THE   WHISPERS   IN  THE   AIR.  127 

The  bouquet  was  arranged  by  this  time,  and  there  was 
no  further  excuse  for  toying  with  it,  so  she  laid  it  down, 
and  looked  at  him. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  be  very  much  frightened,"  she 
said,  "  but  I  am  not.  I  arn  not  at  all  afraid  of  you." 

He  laughed  lightly  to  himself,  and  seemed  amused  at 
the  answer  she  had  made. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  women,"  he  said, 
"and  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  you  are  a  puzzle  to  me.  I 
know  men  as  well  as  I  know  myself,  and  know  what  to 
expect  of  them  under  given  circumstances ;  but  all  those 
of  your  sex  I  have  ever  known  were  as  a  sealed  book. 
The  men  are  always  the  same,  but  I  never  know  what  a 
woman  will  do.  No  two  of  them  are  alike ;  there  is  no 
rule  by  which  you  can  judge  them,  except  that  they  are 
always  better  than  the  men.  I  have  never  known  this  to 
fail,  but  beyond  that  I  know  nothing  of  your  sex.  I  say 
to  you  that  I  am  dangerous ;  you  reply  that  you  are 
not  afraid  of  me.  But  you  ought  to  be ;  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

"  If  you  desii-e  it,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sorry,  but  I  feel  per 
fectly  safe  in  your  company." 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  returned,  looking  down  the  river 
again.  "If  you  were  afraid  of  me,  I  would  not  be 
dangerous.  I  am  not  liable  to  pelt  you  with  stones,' or 
rob  you;  but  the  danger  lies  in  the  likelihood  of  our 
becoming  friends." 

"Is  friendship  so  dangerous,  then?" 

"It  would  be  between  you  and  me,  because  I  am 
odd.  Look  at  me." 

She  did  as  requested,  with  quiet  confidence  and  dig 
nity. 

"  You  say  you  are  not  afraid  of  me ;  neither  am  I  of 
you,  and  I  intend  to  tell  you  what  you  can  hardly  sus- 


128  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

pect.  I  am  in  love  with  you  to  such  an  extent  that  I  can 
think  of  nothing  else ;  but  I  cannot  offer  you  an  honor 
able  man's  love,  because  I  am  not  an  honorable  man,  as 
that  expression  is  used  and  accepted.  I  have  been  look 
ing  all  my  life  for  such  a  woman  as  you  are,  but  now  th!lt 
I  have  found  you,  I  respect  you  so  much  that  I  dare  not 
attempt  to  win  your  favor ;  indeed,  instead  of  that,  I 
warn  you  against  myself.  Until  I  was  thirty  I  looked 
into  every  face  I  met,  expecting  to  find  the  one  I  sought ; 
but  I  never  found  it,  and  finally  gave  up  the  search, 
forced  to  believe  that  such  a  one  as  I  looked  for  did 
not  exist.  I  have  found  out  my  mistake,  but  it  is  too 
late." 

He  jumped  up  from  the  stone  on  which  he  was  seated, 
as  if  he  intended  to  run  away,  and  did  walk  a  distance, 
but  came  back  again,  as  if  he  had  something  else  to 
say. 

"  I  speak  of  this  matter  as  I  might  tell  a  capable  artist 
that  I  was  infatuated  with  his  picture,  and  could  not  re 
sist  the  temptation  to  frequently  admire  it.  I  have  no 
more  reason  to  believe  that  there  is  a -responsive  feeling 
in  your  heart  than  I  would  have  reason  to  believe  that 
the  picture  I  admired  appreciated  the  compliment,  but 
there  is  nothing  wrong  in  what  I  have  said  to  you,  and  it 
is  a  pleasure  for  me  to  say  it ;  there  can  be  no  harm  in 
telling  a  pretty,  modest  woman  that  you  admire  her — 
she  deserves  the  compliment." 

Annie  Benton  did  not  appear  to  be  at  all  surprised  at 
this  avowal,  and  listened  to  it  with  the  air  of  one  who 
was  being  told  of  something  commonplace. 

"You  do  not  make  love  like  the  lovers  I  have  read 
about,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  stnile,  though  she 
could  not  disguise  the  oddity  of  her  position.  "  I  do  not 
know  how  to  answer  you." 


THE   WHISPERS   IN  THE  AIK.  129 

"  Then  don't  answer  me  at  all,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  not 
making  love  to  you,  for  I  have  denied  myself  that  privi 
lege.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  make  love  to  you,  though  I 
want  to;  therefore  I  ask  the  privilege  of  explaining  why 
I  shall  avoid  you  in  the  future,  and  why  I  regret  to  do  it. 
The  first  feeling  I  was  ever  conscious  of  was  one  of  un 
rest  ;  I  was  never  satisfied  with  my  home,  or  with  those 
around  me.  If  I  thought  I  had  a  friend,  I  soon  found  him 
out,  and  was  more  dissatisfied  than  ever.  Of  course  this 
Avas  very  unreasonable  and  foolish ;  anyone  would  say 
that,  and  say  it  with  truth,  but  while  it  is  an  easy  explana 
tion,  I  could  not  help  it ;  I  was  born  that  way,  nor  can  I 
help  saying  that  I  am  satisfied  with  you.  You  suit  me 
exactly,  and  I  was  never  contented  in  my  life  until  I  sat 
in  the  old  church  and  looked  at  you." 

Though  the  girl  continued  to  look  at  him  without  ap 
parent  surprise,  her  face  was  very  pale,  and  she  was 
bi'eathing  rapidly. 

"You  may  regard  what  I  have  said  as  impudent," 
Dorris  continued,  "  and  think  that  while  you  are  satisfac 
tory  to  me,  I  would  not  be  to  you.  I  am  not  now,  but  I 
would  give  a  great  deal  to  convince  you  that  I  am  the 
man  you  dreamed  of  when  you  last  put  wedding-cake 
under  your  pillow,  providing  you  ever  did  such  a  ridicu 
lous  thing.  It  is  not  conceit  for  me  to  say  that  I  believe 
I  could  compel  you  to  respect  me,  therefore  I  regret  that 
we  have  ever  met  at  all,  for  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  woo 
you  honorably ;  if  you  want  to  know  why,  I  will  tell  you, 
for  I  would  place  my  life  in  your  hands  without  the 
slightest  hesitation,  and  feel  secure ;  but  it  is  enough  for 
the  present  to  say  that  nothing  could  happen  which  woiild 
surprise  me.  I  am  in  trouble ;  though  I  would  rather  tell 
you  of  it  than  have  you  surmise  what  it  is,  for  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  it.  I  can  convince  you  —  or  any  one  with 


130  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

equally  good  sense  —  that  I  am  not  nearly  so  bad  as  many 
who  live  in  peace.    Would  you  like  to  hear  my  history  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied ;  "  for  you  would  soon  regret  telling 
it  to  me,  and  I  fear  that  you  will  discover  some  time  that 
I  am  not  worthy  of  the  many  kind  things  you  have  said 
about  me.  I  am  only  a  .woman,  and  when  you  know  me 
better  you  will  find  that  I  am  not  the  one  you  have  been 
looking  for  so  long  and  so  patiently." 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  contradict  you  in  that,"  he  said  with  as 
much  grave  earnestness  as  though  he  had  been  talking 
politics,  and  found  it  necessary  to  take  issue  with  her. 
"  You  are  the  one.  Once  there  came  to  me  in  a  dream  a 
face  which  I  have  loved  ever  since.  This  was  early  in  life, 
and  during  all  the  years  which  have  brought  me  nothing 
but  discontent  and  wretchedness,  it  has  been  rny  constant 
companion  ;  the  one  little  pleasure  of  my  life.  From  the 
darkness  that  surrounded  me,  the  face  has  always  been 
looking  at  me ;  and  whatever  I  have  accomplished  —  I  have 
accomplished  nothing  in  Davy's  Bend,  but  my  life  has 
been  busy  elsewhere  —  has  been  prompted  by  a  desire  to 
please  this  strange  friend.  I  have  never  been  able  to  dis 
miss  my  trouble  —  I  have  had  no  more  than  my  share, 
perhaps,  as  you  have  said,  but  there  is  enough  trouble  in 
the  world  to  render  us  all  unhappy  —  except  to  welcome 
the  recollection  of  the  dream ;  and  although  I  have  often 
admitted  to  myself  that  this  communion  with  the  unreal 
was  absurd,  and  unworthy  of  a  sensible  man,  it  has  afford 
ed  me  a  contentment  that  I  failed  to  find  in  anything  else ; 
therefore  the  fancy  made  a  strong  impression  on  my  mind, 
and  it  grew  stronger  as  I  grew  older,  causing  me  many  a 
heartache  because  there  was  nothing  in  life  like  it.  Most 
men  have  dreams  of  greatness,  but  my  only  wish  was  to 
find  the  face  that  always  came  out  of  the  shadows  at  my 
bidding." 


THE  WHISPERS  IN  THE  AIR.  131 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  looking  into  the  empty  air, 
where  his  dream  seemed  to  realize  before  him,  for  he 
looked  intently  at  it,  and  went  on  to  describe  it. 

"It  was  not  an  angel's  face,  but  a  woman's,  and  there 
was  no  expression  in  it  that  was  not  human ;  expressions 
of  love,  and  pity,  and  forgiveness  —  you  have  them  in 
your  face  now,  and  I  believe  they  are  not  uncommon.  I 
have  never  expected  unreal  or  impossible  things,  and  as 
I  grew  older,  and  better  understood  the  unsatisfactory 
nature  of  life,  I  became  more  than  ever  convinced  that 
I  would  feel  entirely  satisfied  could  my  dream  come  true. 
At  last  I  came  to  believe  that  it  was  impossible ;  that  I 
was  as  unreasonable  as  the  man  who  pined  because  his 
tears  were  not  diamonds ;  but  I  could  not  give  up  the  rec 
ollection  of  the  face,  to  which  I  was  always  so  true  and 
devoted,,  and  comforted  myself  with  brooding  over  it,  and 
regretting  my  misfortune.  Instead  of  greatness  or  gran 
deur,  I  longed  for  the  face,  and  it  was  the  only  one  I  ever 
loved." 

Again  he  was  gazing  intently  at  nothing;  at  his 
fancy,  but  this  time  he  seemed  to  be  dismissing  it  for 
ever,  after  a  careful  inspection  to  convince  himself  that 
the  counterpart  he  had  found  on  earth  was  exactly 
like  it. 

"  Until  I  met  you,"  he  said,  looking  at  Annie  Benton 
again,  "  this  sweetheart  of  my  fancy  lived  in  Heaven, 
Maid  of  Air.  When  you  turned  upon  me  that  afternoon 
in  the  church,  I  almost  exclaimed  aloud  :  '  The  face ! 
My  vision  has  come  true ! '  Not  a  feature  was  missing,  and 
your  actions  and  your  smile  were  precisely  what  I  had 
seen  so  often  in  my  fancy.  Therefore  you  are  not  a 
stranger  to  me  ;  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life,  and  instead 
of  worshipping  a  vision  in  the  future  I  shall  worship  you. 
Why  don't  you  speak  to  me  ?  " 


132       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"  I  don't  dare  to,"  she  answered,  looking  him  full  in  the 
face,  and  without  the  slightest  hesitation.  "  I  am  afraid  I 
would  say  something  I  ought  not  to." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  for  a  moment,  trying  to  di 
vine  her  meaning,  and  concluded  that  if  she  should  speak 
more  freely,  he  would  hear  something  surprising ;  either 
she  would  denounce  him  for  his  boldness,  or  profess  a  love 
for  him  which  would  compel  him  to  give  up  his  resolution 
of  never  seeing  her  again. 

"  That  was  an  unfortunate  expression,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
sorry  you  said  that,  for  it  has  pleased  my  odd  fancy ;  in 
deed,  it  is  precisely  what  I  was  hoping  you  would  say, 
but  there  is  all  the  more  reason  now  for  my  repeating  to 
you  that  I  am  dangerous.  I  know  how  desperate  my  af 
fairs  are ;  how  desperate  I  am,  and  how  unfortunate  it 
would  be  if  you  should  become  involved.  Therefore  I  say 
to  you,  as  a  condemned  prisoner  might  shut  out  the  single 
ray  of  light  which  brightened  his  existence,  so  that  he 
might  meet  his  inevitable  fate  bravely,  that  you  must 
avoid  me,  and  walk  another  way  when  you  see  me 
approaching." 

A  hoarse  whistle  came  to  them  from  the  ferry  in  the 
river,  and  Dorris  thought  of  it  as  an  angry  warning  from 
a  monster,  in  whose  keeping  he  was,  to  come  away  from  a 
presence  which  afforded  him  pleasure. 

"  May  I  speak  a  word  ?  "  the  girl  inquired,  turning  ab 
ruptly  toward  him. 

"  Yes ;  a  dozen,  or  a  thousand,  though  I  would  advise 
you  not  to." 

"  Is  what  you  have  said  to  me  exactly  true  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor ;  exactly  true,"  he  answered. 

"  Is  there  no  morbid  selfishness  in  it ;  no  foolish  fancy?" 

"  Upon  my  honor,  none !  " 

"  Do  you  believe  I  am  your  dream  come  true  with  the 


THE   WHISPERS   IN  THE  AIR.  133 

same  matter-of-fact  belief  which  convinces  you  that  there 
is  a  ferry  in  the  river?  " 

She  pointed  out  the  boat  as  it  moved  lazily  through 
the  water,  and  as  he  looked  at  it  he  seemed  to  resolve  the 
matter  carefully  in  his  mind. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  as  certain  that  you  are  the 
woman  I  have  loved  devotedly  all  my  life,  as  I  am  certain 
that  there  is  a  river  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  What  I  have  said 
to  you  is  generally  regarded  as  sentimental  nonsense  ex 
cept  when  it  is  protected  by  the  charity  of  a  sweetheart 
or  a  wife;  but  it  is  in  every  man's  heart,  though  it  is 
sometimes  never  expressed,  and  my  idle  life  here  has 
made  me  bold  enough  to  state  that  it  is  true.  I  have  been 
seeking  contentment  with  so  much  eagerness,  and  know  so 
well  that  it  is  hard  to  find,  that  I  have  come  to  believe 
that  there  is  but  one  more  chance,  and  that  I  would  find 
what  I  lack  in  the  love  of  a  woman  like  you.  Even  if  I 
should  discover  by  experience  that  I  am  mistaken  in  this 
belief,  I  would  feel  better  off  than  I  ever  did  before ;  for  I 
would  then  conclude  that  my  fancies  were  wrong,  and 
that  I  was  as  well  off  as  any  man ;  but  this  feeling  will 
always  be  denied  me,  for  I  am  denied  the  privilege  of  hap 
piness  now  that  it  is  within  my  reach.  My  lonely  life  here 
has  wrung  a  confession  from  me  which  I  should  have 
kept  to  myself,  but  it  is  every  word  true ;  you  can  depend 
on  that." 

Annie  Benton  seemed  satisfied  with  the  answers  he 
had  made,  and  there  was  another  long  silence  between 
them. 

"And  your  music  —  you  play  like  one  possessed,"  he 
said  finally,  talking  to  the  wind,  probably,  for  he  was  not 
looking  at  the  girl.  "  Every  sentiment  my  heart  has  ever 
known  you  have  expressed  in  chords.  Had  I  not  known 
differently,  I  should  have  thought  you  were  familiar  with 


134       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

my  history  and  permitted  the  organ  to  tell  it  whenever 
we  met.  What  a  voice  the  old  box  has,  and  what  versa 
tility  ;  for  its  power  in  representing  angels  is  only  equalled 
by  its  power  to  represent  devils.  There  is  a  song  with 
which  I  have  become  familiar  from  hearing  you  play  the 
air ;  it  is  a  sermon  which  appealed  to  me  as  nothing  ever 
did  before.  Before  I  knew  the  words,  I  felt  sure  that  they 
were  promises  of  mercy  and  forgiveness;  and  when  I 
found  them,  I  thought  I  must  have  been  familiar  with 
them  all  my  life ;  they  were  exactly  what  I  had  imagined. 
To  look  at  your  cold,  passionless  face  now,  no  one  would 
suspect  your  wonderful  genius.  You  look  innocent 
enough,  but  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  are  regarded  as  a 
greater  attraction  than  the  minister.  I  have  been  told 
that  you  can  kill  the  sermon,  when  you  want  to,  by  freez 
ing  the  audience  before  it  commences,  and  I  believe  it.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  you  take  pride  in  controlling  with 
your  deft  fingers  the  poor  folks  who  worship  under  the 
steeple  which  mounts  up  below  us.  I  only  wonder  that 
you  do  not  cause  them  to  cheer,  and  swing  their  hats,  for 
they  say  that  you  can  move  them  to  tears  at  will." 

"  I  never  feel  like  cheering  myself,"  she  answered,  "  and 
I  suppose  that  is  why  the  organ  never  does.  But  I  very 
often  feel  sad,  because  I  am  so  commonplace,  and  because 
there  is  so  little  in  the  future  for  me.  If  I  play  so  coldly 
at  times  that  even  the  minister  is  affected,  it  is  because  I 
am  indifferent,  and  forget,  and  not  because  I  intend  it." 

"  If  you  are  commonplace,"  Allan  Dorris  replied,  "  you 
have  abundant  company ;  for  the  world  is  full  of  common 
people.  We  are  all  creatures  of  such  common  mould 
that  I  wonder  we  do  not  tire  of  our  ugly  forms.  Out  of 
every  hundred  thousand  there  is  a  genius,  who  neglects 
all  the  virtues  of  the  common  folks,  and  is  hateful  save 
as  a  genius.  For  his  one  good  quality  he  has  a  hundred 


THE   WHISPERS   EST   THE  AIR.  135 

bad  ones;  but  lie  is  not  held  to  strict  account,  like  the  rest 
of  us,  for  genius  is  so  rare  that  we  encourage  it,  no  matter 
what  the  cost.  But  I  have  heard  that  these  great  people  are 
monstrosities,  and  thoroughly  wretched.  I  would  rather 
be  a  king  in  one  honest  heart,  than  a  sight  for  thousands. 
But  this  is  not  running  away  from  you,  as  I  promised,  and 
if  I  remain  here  longer  I  shall  lose  the  power.  My  path 
is  down  the  hill ;  yours  is  up." 

He  lifted  his  hat  to  her,  and  walked  away;  but  she 
called  to  him,  — 

"  I  am  going  down  the  hill,  too,  and  I  will  accompany 
you." 

He  waited  until  she  came  up,  and  they  walked  away 
together. 

The  girl  had  said  that  she  was  going  down  the  hill,  too, 
and  would  accompany  him;  but  Dorris  knew  that  she 
meant  the  hill  on  which  they  were  standing,  not  the  one 
he  referred  to.  He  referred  to  a  hill  as  famous  as  wicked 
ness,  and  known  in  every  house  because  of  its  open  doors 
to  welcome  back  some  straggler  from  the  noisy  crowd 
travelling  down  the  famous  hill;  but  he  thought  that 
should  a  woman  like  Annie  Benton  consent  to  undertake 
the  journey  with  him,  he  would  change  his  course,  and 
travel  the  other  way,  in  spite  of  everything. 

"  Did  I  do  wrong  in  asking'you  to  wait  for  me  ?  "  she 
inquired,  after  they  had  walked  awhile  in  silence. 

"  Yes."  he  answered,  "  because  it  pleased  me.  Be  very 
careful  to  do  nothing  which  pleases  me,  for  I  am  not  ac 
customed  to  it,  and  the  novelty  may  cause  me  to  forget 
the  vow  I  have  made.  A  man  long  accustomed  to  dark 
ness  is  very  fond  of  the  light.  "What  do  you  think  of  me, 
anyway  ?  " 

"  What  a  strange  question ! "  the  girl  said,  turning  to 
look  at  him. 


136  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"  Be  as  frank  with  me  as  I  was  with  you.  What  do 
you  think  of  me  ?  " 

The  girl  thought  the  matter  over  for  a  while,  and  re 
plied,  — 

"  If  I  should  answer  you  frankly,  I  should  please  you ; 
and  you  have  warned  me  against  that." 

Dorris  was  amused  at  the  reply,  and  laughed  awhile  to 
himself. 

"  I  did  n't  think  of  that,"  he  said,  though  he  probably 
had  thought  of  it,  and  hoped  that  her  reply  would  be 
what  it  was.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  I  am  not  repug 
nant  to  you,  though.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  me  to  know, 
now  that  my  dream  has  come  true,  that  the  subject  of  it 
does  not  regard  me  with  distrust  or  aversion.  I  am  glad, 
too,  tli at  after  dreaming  of  the  sunshine  so  long,  it  is  not 
a  disappointment.  In  my  loneliness  hereafter  that  cir 
cumstance  will  be  a  satisfaction,  and  it  will  be  a  pleasure 
to  believe  that  the  sunshine  was  brighter  because  of  my 
brief  stay  ia  it.  I  can  forget  some  of  the  darkness 
around  me  in  future,  in  thinking  of  these  two  circum 
stances." 

They  had  reached  Thompson  Benton's  gate  by  this 
time,  and,  the  invitation  having  been  extended,  Dorris 
walked  into  the  house.  The  master  was  not  due  for  an 
hour,  so  Dorris  remained  until  he  came,  excusing  himself 
by  the  reflection  that  he  would  never  see  the  girl  again, 
and  that  he  was  entitled  to  this  pleasure  because  of  the 
sacrifice  he  had  resolved  to  make. 

It  was  the  same  old  story  over  again ;  Allan  Dorris  was 
desperately  in  love  with  Annie  Benton,  but  she  must  not 
be  in  love  with  him,  for  he  was  dangerous,  and  whether 
this  was  true  or  not,  his  companion  did  not  believe  it. 
He  told  in  a  hundred  ways,  though  in  language  which 
might  have  meant  any  one  of  a  hundred  tilings,  that  she 


THE   WHISPERS   IN   THE   AIR.  137 

was  his  dream  come  true,  and  of  the  necessity  which 
existed  for  him  to  avoid  her.  Occasionally  he  would  for 
get  to  be  grave,  and  make  sport  of  himself,  and  laugh  at 
what  he  had  been  saying ;  and  at  these  times  Annie  Ben- 
ton  was  convinced  more  than  ever  that  he  was  not  a  dan 
gerous  man,  as  he  said,  for  there  was  an  honest  gentility 
in  his  manner,  and  a  gentle  respect  for  her  womanhood  in 
everything  he  did;  therefore  she  listened  attentively  to 
what  he  said,  saying  but  little  herself,  as  he  requested. 
Although  he  made  love  to  her  in  many  ingenious  ways, 
and  moved  Annie  Benton  as  she  had  never  been  moved 
before,  he  did  not  so  intend  it.  Could  his  motives  have 
been  impartially  judged,  that  must  have  been  the 
verdict;  but  while  he  knew  that  his  love  was  out  of 
place  in  the  keeping  of  the  girl,  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  giving  it  to  her,  and  then  asking  her 
to  refuse  it. 

Several  times  Annie  Benton  attempted  to  speak,  but  he 
held  up  his  hand  as  a  warning. 

"Don't  say  anything  that  you  will  regret,"  he  said. 
"  Let  me  do  that ;  I  am  famous  for  it.  I  never  talked 
ten  minutes  in  my  life  that  I  did  n't  say  something  that 
caused  me  regret  for  a  year.  But  I  will  never  regret  any 
thing  I  have  said  to  you,  for  I  have  only  made  a  confes 
sion  which  has  been  at  my  tongue's  end  for  years.  I  have 
known  you  all  my  life ;  you  know  nothing  of  me,  and  care 
less,  therefore  let  it  be  as  I  suggest." 

"But  just  a  word,"  the  girl  insisted.  "You  do  not 
understand  what  I  would  say  —  " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  would  say,  but  I  can  imagine 
what  a  lady  like  you  should  say  under  such  circumstances, 
and  I  beg  the  favor  of  your  silence.  Let  me  imagine 
what  I  please,  since  that  can  be  of  little  consequence  to 
you." 


138  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

There  was  a  noise  at  the  frout  door,  and  old  Thompson 
came  in.  Dorris  bowed  himself  out,  followed  by  a  scowl, 
and  as  he  walked  along  toward  his  own  house  he  thought 
that  his  resolution  to  see  Annie  Benton  no  more  would  at 
least  save  him  from  a  quarrel  with  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

KUINED  BY  KINDNESS. 

JOHN  BILL,  editor  of  the  Davy's  Bend  Triumph, 
was  ruined  by  a  railroad  pass.  When  he  taught 
school  over  in  the  bottoms,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
and  was  compelled  to  pay  his  fare  when  he  travelled,  he  sel 
dom  travelled,  and  therefore  put  his  money  carefully  away, 
but  when  he  invested  his  savings  in  the  Triumph,  and 
the  railroad  company  sent  him  an  annual  pass,  he  made  up 
for  lost  time,  and  travelled  up  and  down  the  road  almost 
constantly,  all  his  earnings  being  required  to  pay  his  ex 
penses. 

A  day  seldom  passed  that  John  Bill  did  not  get  off  or 
on  a  train  at  the  Davy's  Bend  station,  carrying  an  impor 
tant  looking  satchel  in  his  right  hand,  and  an  umbrella  in 
his  left,  and  though  he  imagined  that  this  coming  and  go 
ing  gave  the  people  an  idea  of  his  importance,  he  was 
mistaken,  for  they  knew  he  had  no  business  out  of  the 
town,  and  very  little  in  it :  therefore  they  made  fun  of 
him,  as  they  did  of  everything  else,  for  the  Davy's  Bend 
people  could  appreciate  the  ridiculous  in  spite  of  their 
many  misfortunes.  They  knew  enough,  else  they  could 
not  have  been  such  shrewd  fault-finders,  and  they  had 
rather  extensive  knowledge  of  everything  worldly  except 
a  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  Capital,  which  was  always 
avoiding  them ;  but  this  was  not  astonishing,  since  Capital 
had  never  lived  among  them  and  been  subject  to  their 
keen  scrutiny. 

139 


140  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

When  an  event  was  advertised  to  take  place  on  the 
line  of  road  over  which  his  pass  was  accepted,  John  Bill 
was  sure  to  be  present,  for  he  argued  that,  in  order  to  re 
port  the  news  correctly,  he  must  be  on  the  ground  in 
person  ;  but  usually  he  remained  away  so  long,  and  gave 
the  subject  in  hand  such  thorough  attention,  that  he  con 
cluded  on  his  return  that  the  people  had  heard  of  the  pro 
ceedings,  and  did  not  write  them  up,  though  he  frequent 
ly  asserted  with  much  earnestness  that  no  editor  in  that 
country  gave  the  news  as  much  personal  attention  as  he 
did. 

Still,  John  Bill  claimed  to  be  worth  a  good  deal  of 
money.  There  was  no  question  at  all,  he  frequently 
argued,  that  his  business  and  goodwill  were  worth  fifteen 
thousand  dollars —  any  man  would  be  willing  to  pay  that 
for  the  Triumph  and  its  goodwill,  providing  he  had  the 
money;  therefore,  deducting  his  debts,  which  amounted 
to  a  trifle  of  eleven  hundred  dollars  on  his  material,  in 
the  shape  of  an  encumbrance,  and  a  floating  indebtedness 
of  half  as  much  more,  he  was  still  worth  a  little  more  than 
thirteen  thousand  dollars.  The  people  said  that  everything 
in  his  office  was  not  worth  half  the  amount  of  the  encum 
brance,  and  that  his  goodwill  could  not  be  very  valuable, 
since  his  business  did  not  pay  its  expenses ;  but  John 
Bill  could  prove  that  the  people  had  never  treated  him 
j  ustly,  therefore  they  were  likely  to  misrepresent  the  facts 
in  his  case. 

There  was  a  mortgage,  as  any  one  who  cared  to  ex 
amine  the  records  might  convince  himself,  but  it  was  a 
very  respectable  mortgage,  and  had  been  extended  from 
time  to  time,  as  the  office  changed  hands,  for  fifteen  years 
past.  It  had  .been  owned  by  all  the  best  men  in  the 
neighborhood;  but  while  a  great  many  transfers  were 
noted  thereon,  no  credits  appeared,  so  John  Bill  was  no 


RUINED   BY   KINDNESS.  141 

worse  than  the  rest  of  them.  The  former  parties  of  the 
first  part  had  intended  paying  off  the  trifling  amount 
in  a  few  weeks,  and  thereby  become  free  to  act  as  they 
pleased  ;  John  Bill  had  the  same  intention  concerning  the 
document,  therefore  it  was  no  great  matter  after  all. 

Besides,  there  were  the  accounts.  He  had  a  book  full 
of  them,  and  was  always  showing  it  to  those  who  both 
ered  him  for  money.  The  accounts  were  all  against  good 
men ;  a  little  slow,  perhaps,  but  good,  nevertheless,  and 
the  accounts  should  be  figured  in  an  estimate  of  John 
Bill's  affairs,  which  would  add  a  few  thousands  more  to 
the  total. 

It  was  a  little  curious,  though,  that  most  of  the  men 
whose  names  appeared  on  John  Bill's  ledger  had  accounts 
against  John  Bill,  and  while  he  frequently  turned  to  their 
page  and  showed  their  balances,  they  also  turned  to  John 
Bill's  page  in  their  ledgers,  and  remarked  that  there  was 
no  getting  anything  out  of  him.  Thompson  Benton  had 
been  heard  to  say  that  each  of  these  men  were  afraid  to 
present  their  bills  first,  fearing  that  the  others  would 
create  a  larger  one ;  so  the  accounts  ran  on  from  year  to 
year.  But  whoever  was  in  the  right,  it  is  certain  that 
the  accounts  were  a  great  comfort  to  John  Bill,  for  he 
frequently  looked  them  over  as  a  miser  might  count  his 
money. 

John  Bill  was  certain  the  people  of  Davy's  Bend  were 
ungrateful.  He  had  helped  them  and  their  town  in  a 
thousand  ways,  and  spent  his  time  (or  that  part  of  it  not 
devoted  to  using  his  pass)  in  befriending  them ;  but  did 
they  appreciate  him  ?  They  did  not ;  this  may  be  set 
down  as  certain,  for  if  the  editor  had  put  them  in  the 
way  of  making  money,  they  were  thoroughly  ungrateful. 
Indeed,  the  people  went  so  far  as  to  declare  that  John 
Bill  was  the  ungrateful  one,  nor  were  they  backward  in 


142  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

saying  so.  They  had  taken  his  paper,  and  helped  him  in 
every  way  possible,  but  he  did  not  appreciate  it ;  so  they 
accused  each  other,  and  a  very  uncomfortable  time  they 
had  of  it.  But  though  John  Bill  claimed  to  be  always 
helping  the  people,  and  though  the  people  claimed  that 
they  had  done  a  great  deal  for  John  Bill,  the  facts  were 
that  neither  John  Bill  nor  the  people  gave  substantial 
evidence  of  any  very  great  exertions  in  each  other's  behalf, 
so  there  must  have  been  a  dreadful  mistake  out  somewhere. 
Likewise,  they  quarrelled  as  to  which  had  tried  to  bring 
the  greater  number  of  institutions  to  the  town ;  but  as 
to  the  institutions  actually  secured,  there  were  none  to 
quarrel  over,  so  there  was  peace  in  this  direction. 

John  Bill  frequently  came  to  the  conclusion  that  his 
wrongs  must  be  righted ;  that  he  must  call  names,  and 
dot  his  i's  and  cross  his  t's,  even  to  pointing  out  to  the 
world  wherein  he  had  been  wronged.  He  could  stand 
systematic  persecution  no  longer,  he  said,  so  he  would  fill 
his  ink-bottle,  and  secure  a  fresh  supply  of  paper,  with  a 
view  of  holding  up  to  public  scorn  those  who  had  tram 
pled  him  in  the  dust  of  the  street.  But  it  was  a  bold 
undertaking ;  a  stouter  heart  than  John  Bill's  would  have 
shrunk  from  attacking  a  people  with  a  defence  as  sound 
as  the  Davy's  Bend  folks  could  have  made,  so  he  usually 
compromised  by  writing  paid  locals  about  the  men  he 
had  intended  to  accuse  of  ingratitude,  referring  to  them 
as  generous,  warm-hearted  men,  who  were  creditable  to 
humanity,  all  of  which  he  added  to  the  accounts  at  the 
rate  of  eight  cents  per  line  of  seven  words. 

John  Bill  was  so  situated  that  he  did  little  else  than 
write  paid  locals,  though  he  usually  found  time  once  a 
week  to  write  imaginary  descriptions  of  the  rapid  increase 
in  circulation  his  paper  was  experiencing.  He  had  dis 
covered  somehow  that  men  who  would  pay  for  nothing 


RUINED   BY   KINDNESS.  143 

else  would  pay  for  being  referred  to  as  citizens  of  rare 
accomplishments,  and  as  gentlemen  whose  business  ability 
was  such  that  their  competitors  were  constantly  howling 
in  rage ;  and  it  became  necessary  to  use  this  knowledge 
to  obtain  the  bare  necessities  of  life.  The  very  men  who 
declared  that  John  Bill  could  have  no  more  goods  at  their 
stores  until  old  scores  were  squared  would  soften  under 
the  influence  of  the  puff,  and  honor  his  "  orders "  when 
in  the  hands  of  either  of  the  two  young  men  who  did  his 
work. 

Perhaps  this  was  one  reason  the  Triumph  was  on  all  sides 
of  every  question.  Whoever  saw  fit  to  write  for  it  had 
his  communication  printed  as  original  editorial ;  for  the  edi 
tor  was  seldom  at  home,  and  when  he  was,  he  found  his  time 
taken  up  in  earning  his  bread  by  writing  palatable  false 
hoods  ;  therefore  all  the  contributions  went  in,  and  as 
correspondents  seldom  agree,  the  Triumph  was  a  remark 
able  publication.  Whenever  a  citizen  had  a  grievance,  he 
aired  it  in  the  Triumph,  his  contribution  appearing  as 
the  opinion  of  the  editor.  The  person  attacked  replied 
in  like  manner ;  hence  John  Bill  was  usually  in  the  atti 
tude  of  fiercely  declaring  No  one  week,  and  Yes  with 
equal  determination  the  next.  It  was  so  on  all  subjects ; 
politics,  religion,  local  matters  —  everything.  The  Repub 
lican  who  aired  his  views  one  week  in  John  Bill's  remark 
able  editorial  columns  was  sure  to  find  himself  confronted 
by  a  Democrat  who  was  handy  with  a  pen  in  the  next  is 
sue  ;  the  man  who  wrote  that  This,  or  That,  or  the  Other, 
was  a  disgrace,  would  soon  find  out  that  This,  or  That,  or 
the  Other,  were  very  creditable ;  for  John  Bill's  printers 
must  have  copy,  and  John  Bill  was  too  busy  travelling 
and  lying  to  furnish  it  himself. 

Having  returned  home  on  the  night  train,  John  Bill 
climbed  the  stairway  at  the  head  of  which  his  office  was 


144  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

situated,  and  was  engaged  in  preparing  for  his  next  issue. 
Although  he  felt  sure  that  a  large  amount  of  important 
mail  matter  had  arrived  during  his  absence,  it  could  not 
be  found;  and  therefore  the  editor  was  in  rather  bad 
humor,  as  he  produced  a  list  of  paid  notices  to  be  written, 
and  made  lazy  preparation  for  writing  them.  The  editor 
was  always  expecting  important  mail  matter,  and  because 
it  never  came  he  almost  concluded  that  the  postmaster  was 
in  the  intrigue  against  him.  While  thinking  that  he  would 
include  that  official  in  the  expose  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
write  at  some  time  in  the  future,  a  knock  came  at  the 
door.  He  had  heard  no  step  ascending  the  stair,  there 
fore  he  concluded  it  must  be  one  of  his  young  men ;  pro 
bably  the  pale  one,  who  was  wasting  his  life  in  chewing 
plug  tobacco,  and  squirting  it  around  in  puddles,  in  order 
that  he  might  realize  on  a  joke  which  he  had  perpetrated 
by  printing  a  sign  in  huge  letters,  requesting  visitors  not 
to  spit  on  the  floor. 

In  response  to  his  invitation  a  tall  gentleman  came  in,  — 
a  stranger,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  black  material  that  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  being  much  on  the  road,  for  it  was 
untidy  and  unkempt.  He  looked  a  good  deal  like  a  genteel 
man  who  had  been  lately  engaged  in  rough  work,  and  John 
Bill  noticed  that  he  kept  his  left  side  turned  from  him. 
The  stranger's  hair,  as  well  as  his  moustache  and  goatee, 
were  bushy,  and  sprinkled  with  gray ;  and  he  had  a  rather 
peculiar  pair  of  eyes,  which  he  used  to  such  an  advantage 
that  he  seemed  to  remark  everything  in  the  room  at  a 
single  glance.  An  odd  man,  John  Bill  thought ;  a  man 
who  might  turn  out  to  be  anything  surprising;  so  he 
looked  at  him  curiously  quite  a  long  tune. 

"You  are  Mr.  Bill?"  the  stranger  asked,  after  the 
two  men  had  looked  each  other  over  to  their  joint  satis 
faction. 


EUJLNKD  BY  KDflXNESS.  145 

The  editor  acknowledged  his  name  by  an  inclination  of 
the  head,  at  the  same  time  offering  a  chair. 

"  I  came  in  on  the  night  train,"  the  tall  man  said, 
seating  himself  with  the  left  side  of  his  face  toward  the 
door  at  which  he  had  entered ;  "  therefore  I  call  upon  you 
at  this  unseasonable  hour  to  make  a  few  inquiries  with 
reference  to  your  place.  It  is  not  probable  that  I  shall 
become  an  advertiser,  or  a  patron  of  any  kind;  but  I 
think  you  may  depend  on  it  that  I  will  shortly  furnish 
you  with  an  item  of  news.  I  have  read  your  editorial 
paragraphs  with  a  good  deal  of  interest,  and  concluded 
that  you  could  give  me  the  information  desired." 

John  Bill  expressed  a  wish  to  himself  that  the  stranger 
would  never  find  out  that  he  did  not  write  the  editorials 
he  professed  to  admire ;  but  there  was  a  possibility  that 
his  visitor  was  not  sincere.  He  had  said  that  he  came  to 
the  town  on  the  night  train.  John  Bill  knew  this  to  be 
untrue,  for  he  had  been  a  passenger  on  that  train  himself, 
and  no  one  else  got  off  when  he  did.  He  was  glad,  how 
ever,  that  the  determined-looking  visitor  did  not  bring  a 
folded  copy  of  the  Triumph  with  him  for  convenience  in 
referring  to  an  objectionable  paragraph ;  for  John  Bill  felt 
sure  that  such  a  man  as  the  stranger  looked  to  be  would 
not  go  away  without  satisfaction  of  some  kind.  He  was 
bothered  a  good  deal  in  this  way,  by  reason  of  his  rather 
peculiar  way  of  conducting  the  Triumph  /  but  questions 
with  reference  to  Davy's  Bend, —  he  could  answer  them 
easy  enough. 

But  he  did  not  contradict  the  statement  of  his  visitor 
concerning  the  time  he  arrived  in  town,  for  he  did  not 
look  like  a  man  who  would  take  kindly  to  a  thing  of  that 
sort ;  so  the  editor  meekly  said  he  would  be  pleased  to  give 
him  any  information  in  his  power. 

';I  will  inquire  first  about  the  man  calling  himself — 


146  THE   MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Allan  Dorris,"  the  stranger  continued,  consulting  a  book 
which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  and  pausing  a  little  before 
pronouncing  the  name,  "  and  I  ask  that  this  conversation 
be  in  confidence.  How  long  has  this  fellow  been  here  ?  " 

The  tall  stranger  put  up  his  book,  and  looked  at  the 
responsible  head  of  the  Triumph  as  though  he  would 
intimate  that  his  displeasure  would  be  serious  should  his 
instructions  be  neglected. 

"This  is  October,"  Mr.  Bill  replied,  counting  on  his 
fingers.  "  He  came  in  the  spring,  some  time ;  probably 
six  months  ago.  I  do  not  know  him  personally.  He  is  a 
doctor,  and  lives  in  a  place  called  '  The  Locks,'  on  the 
edge  of  the  town,  in  this  direction,"  pointing  his  finger 
toward  the  stone  church,  and  the  house  in  which  Allan 
Dorris  lived.  "  That 's  about  all  I  know  of  him." 

The  peculiar  pair  of  eyes  owned  by  the  odd  man 
followed  the  direction  pointed  out  for  a  moment,  and 
then  settled  on  John  Bill  again. 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  has  a  love  affair  with  a  young 
woman  named  —  Annie  Benton,"  the  visitor  said  with  busi 
ness  precision,  once  more  consulting  his  book,  and  pausing 
before  pronouncing  the  name,  as  he  had  done  before. 
"What  do  yoii  know  about  that?" 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  it,"  the  editor  replied,  "  but 
nothing  in  particular ;  only  that  he  is  with  her  a  great 
deal,  and  that  he  meets  her  usually  in  a  church  near  his 
house.  The  people  talk  about  it,  but  I  am  too  busy  to 
pay  much  attention  to  such  matters." 

John  Bill  was  trying  to  create  the  impression  that  he 
was  kept  busy  in  writing  the  sparkling  editorials  which 
the  stranger  had  pretended  to  admire,  but  thinking  at  the 
last  moment  that  his  travelling  was  his  credit,  he  added, 
with  a  modest  cough :  "  Besides,  I  travel  a  good  deal." 
But  this  was  not  the  first  time  John  Bill  had  tried  to 


RUINED   BY   KINDNESS.  147 

create  a  wrong  impression.  He  foolishly  imagined  that, 
being  an  editor,  he  was  expected  to  know  more  than 
other  people ;  but  as  he  did  not,  he  frequently  filled  his 
mind  with  old  dates,  and  names,  and  events,  by  reading 
of  them,  and  then  talked  of  the  subject  to  others,  pre 
tending  that  it  had  just  occurred  to  him,  and  usually  add 
ing  a  word  or  two  concerning  the  popular  ignorance.  If 
he  encountered  a  word  which  he  did  not  know  the  mean 
ing  of,  he  looked  it  up,  and  used  it  a  great  deal  after  that, 
usually  in  connection  with  arguments  to  prove  that  the 
average  man  did  not  understand  the  commonest  words  in 
his  language.  Nor  was  this  all ;  John  Bill  was  a  deceiver 
in  another  particular.  He  frequently  intimated  in  the 
Triumph  that  if  he  were  a  rich  man  he  would  spend  his 
money  liberally  in  "  helping  the  town ; "  that  is,  in  mend 
ing  the  streets  and  sidewalks,  and  in  building  manufac 
tories  which  would  give  employment  to  "  labor."  John 
Bill  was  certainly  a  deceiver  in  this,  for  there  never  was  a 
poor  man  who  did  not  find  fault  with  the  well-to-do  for 
taking  care  of  their  means.  The  men  who  have  no 
money  of  their  own  claim  to  know  exactly  how  money 
should  be  invested,  but  somehow  the  men  who  have 
money  entertain  entirely  different  ideas  on  the  subject. 

Upon  invitation  the  editor  told  of  old  Thompson  Ben- 
ton  and  his  disposition  ;  of  the  beauty  of  his  daughter, 
and  of  her  talent  as  a  musician  ;  of  Allan  Dorris's  dispo 
sition,  which  seemed  to  be  sour  one  day,  and  sweet  the 
next,  and  so  on  ;  all  of  which  the  stranger  noted  in  his 
book,  occasionally  making  an  inquiry  as  the  narrative  of 
the  town's  gossip  progressed.  When  this  was  concluded, 
the  book  in  which  the  notes  were  made  was  carefully 
put  away,  and  the  stranger  backed  toward  the  door,  still 
keeping  his  left  side  in  the  shadow,  first  leaving  a  ten- 
dollar  note  on  the  editorial  table. 


148  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"  I  shall  need  your^services  soon,"  he  said,  "  and  I  make 
a  small  payment  in  advance  to  bind  the  bargain.  "When 
the  time  comes  you  will  know  it.  Your  business  then  will 
be  to  forget  this  interview.  You  are  also  to  say  nothing 
about  it  until  you  receive  the  warning  to  forget.  I  bid 
you  good-night." 

So  saying  the  stranger  was  gone,  retreating  down  the 
stairway  so  lightly  that  his  footsteps  could  not  be  heard. 

A  rather  remarkable  circumstance,  the  editor  thought ; 
a  visit  at  such  an  hour  from  a  mysterious  man  who  in 
quired  minutely  about  a  citizen  who  was  almost  as  mucli 
of  a  mystery  as  the  visitor  himself ;  and  when  he  heard  a 
step  on  the  stair  again,  he  concluded  that  the  stranger 
had  forgotten  something,  and  was  coming  back,  so  he 
opened  the  door,  only  to  meet  Mrs.  Whittle,  the  milliner, 
who  carried  a  sealed  envelope  in  her  hand. 

John  Bill  did  not  like  Mrs.  Whittle,  the  milliner,  very 
well ;  for  she  had  a  habit  of  saying  that  "  her  work  "  was 
all  the  advertising  she  needed,  referring  to  the  circum 
stance  that  she  had  become  the  town  busybody  in  her 
attempts  to  reform  the  people ;  but  he  received  her 
politely,  and  thought  to  himself  that  when  his  sensation 
finally  appeared  it  would  refer  to  this  party  as  fluffy,  fat, 
and  beardy. 

Mrs.  Whittle  had  a  good  deal  to  say  concerning  the 
careless,  good-natured  wickedness  of  the  people,  and  the 
people  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  Mrs.  Whittle.  One 
thing  they  said  was,  that  while  she  was  always  coaxing 
those  who  were  doing  very  well  to  become  better,  she 
was  shamefully  neglecting  her  own  blood  in  the  person  of 
little  Ben  Whittle,  her  only  child,  who  was  being  worked 
to  death  by  the  farmer  named  Quade,  in  whose  employ 
he  was.  This  unfortunate  child  had  not  seen  his  mother 
for  years,  and  was  really  sick,  distressed,  ragged,  and 


RUINED   BY   KINDNESS.  149 

dirty ;  but  while  Mrs.  Whittle  imagined  that  he  was  doing 
very  well,  and  felt  quite  easy  concerning  him,  she  could 
not  sleep  at  night  from  worrying  over  the  fear  that  other 
children,  blessed  with  indulgent  parents  and  good  homes, 
were  growing  up  in  wickedness.  Her  husband  was  a 
drunkard  and  a  loafer,  but  Mrs.  Whittle  had  no  time  to 
bother  about  him ;  there  were  men  in  the  town  so  thor 
oughly  debased  as  to  remain  at  home,  and  rest  on  Sunday, 
instead  of  going  to  church,  and  to  this  unfortunate  class 
she  devoted  her  life.  She  frequently  took  credit  to  her 
self  that  the  best  citizens  of  Davy's  Bend  were  not  in  jail, 
and  believed  that  they  would  finally  acknowledge  their 
debt  to  her ;  but  of  her  unfortunate  son  and  her  vagrant 
husband  she  never  thought  at  all ;  so  John  Bill  could  not 
very  well  be  blamed  for  disliking  her. 

"  I  heard  you  would  return  to-night,"  the  good  woman 
said,  panting  from  her  exertion  in  climbing  the  stairs, 
"  arid  I  wanted  to  deliver  this  with  my  own  hands,  which 
is  my  excuse  for  coming  at  this  late  hour,  though  I  don't 
suppose  that  any  one  would  doubt  that  I  came  on  a  good 
errand,  even  if  they  had  seen  me  coming  up.  Bless  me, 
what  a  hard  stair  you  have !  " 

John  Bill  took  the  envelope,  and,  after  tearing  it  open, 
hung  the  note  it  contained  on  an  empty  *hook  within 
reach  of  his  hand,  without  looking  at  it.  Meanwhile  Mrs. 
Whittle  continued  to  pant,  and  look  good. 

"  It  refers  to  Allan  Dorris's  affair  with  Annie  Benton," 
she  said,  recovering  her  breath  at  last.  "Something 
should  be  done,  and  I  don't  know  who  else  is  to  do  it. 
The  people  all  mean  well  enough,  and  they  are  good 
enough  people  as  a  rule ;  but  when  there  is  good  to  be 
accomplished,  I  usually  find  it  is  not  accomplished  unless 
I  take  an  interest  in  it.  No  one  knows  better  than  John 
Bill  that  I  do  not  suspect  people,  and  am  always  in- 


150  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

clined  to  believe  good  of  them,  but  there  is  something 
wrong  about  this  Allan  Dorris.  Mr.  Ponsonboy  and  Mr. 
Wilton  say  so,  and  you  know  they  are  very  careful  of 
what  they  say." 

John  Bill  had  heard  that  statement  questioned,  and  he 
mentally  added  their  names  to  his  black  list.  Two  greater 
talking  old  women  never  wore  pants,  John  Bill  had  heard 
said,  than  Messrs.  Ponsonboy  and  Wilton,  and  when  he 
got  at  it  he  would  skin  them  with  the  others. 

"Better  men  than  Mr.  Ponsonboy  and  Mr.  Wilton 
never  lived,"  Mrs.  Whittle  said,  "  and  I  have  concluded 
to  write  a  hint  which  Annie  Benton  as  well  as  Allan 
Dorris  will  understand.  If  nothing  comes  of  it,  I  will 
try  something  else.  I  am  not  easily  discouraged,  Mr. 
Bill ;  I  would  have  given  up  long  ago  if  I  were." 

Mrs.  Whittle  found  it  necessary  to  pause  for  another 
rest,  and  the  editor  took  opportunity  to  make  mental 
note  of  the  fact  (for  use  in  the  coming  exposure)  that  she 
was  dressed  in  the  most  execrable  taste ;  that  her  clothes 
seemed  to  have  been  thrown  at  her  from  a  miscellaneous 
assortment,  without  regard  to  color,  material,  or  shape, 
and  that  she  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  arrange  them. 
John  Bill  felt  certain  that  when  the  people  were  buying 
copies  of  his  paper  to  burn,  they  would  read  that  Mrs. 
Whittle  was  in  need  of  the  refining  influences  of  a  dress 
maker. 

"  You  are  a  good  man  at  heart,  Mr.  Bill,"  Mrs.  Whittle 
said  again,  which  was  an  expression  the  editor  had  heard 
before,  for  he  was  always  being  told  that  he  was  a  better 
man  than  he  appeared  to  be,  though  he  knew  a  great 
many  people  who  were  not  better  than  they  appeared  to 
be.  "  I  know  you  are,  and  that  you  do  not  mean  all  the 
bad  things  you  say  sometimes.  I  know  you  will  help  me 
in  doing  good,  for  it  is  so  important  that  good  should  be 


KUINED   BY  KINDNESS.  151 

dono.  When  I  think  of  the  wickedness  around  me,  and 
the  work  that  is  to  be  done,  I  almost  faint  at  the  pros 
pect,  but  I  only  hope  that  my  strength  may  enable  me  to 
hold  out  to  the  end.  I  pray  that  I  may  be  spared  until 
this  is  a  better  world." 

Mr.  Bill  promised  to  find  a  place  in  his  crowded 
columns  for  the  good  woman's  contribution,  and  she 
went  away,  with  a  sigh  for  the  general  wickedness. 

"  The  world  will  be  better  off  for  that  sigh,"  John  Bill 
said,  as  he  settled  down  in  his  chair,  and  heard  Mrs. 
Whittle  step  off  the  stair  into  the  street.  "  What  we 
need  is  more  sighing  and  less  work.  There  is  no  lack  of 
workers ;  in  fact,  the  country  is  too  full  of  them  for  com 
fort,  but  there  is  a  painful  lack  of  good  people  to  sigh. 
The  first  one  who  called  to-night  on  Allan  Dorris  busi 
ness  looked  like  a  worker;  a  worker-off,  I  may  say.  This 
Dorris  is  becoming  important  of  late.  I  must  make  his 
acquaintance.  Hello !  Another ! " 

The  owner  of  the  legs  that  were  climbing  the  stairway 
this  time  turned  out  to  be  Silas  Davy,  who  came  in  and 
handed  John  Bill  a  piece  of  paper.  It  proved  to  be  a 
brief  note,  which  read,  — 

"  To  JOHN  BILL,  —  If  the  party  who  has  just  left  your 
office  left  a  communication  concerning  Allan  Dorris,  I 
speak  for  the  privilege  of  answering  it. 

TUG  WHITTLE." 

John  Bill  read  the  note  several  times  over  after  Silas 
had  disappeared,  and  finally  getting  up  from  his  chair, 
said,  — 

"  I  '11  write  no  more  to-night ;  there  may  be  interesting 
developments  in  the  morning." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  REBELLION  OF  THE  BARITONE. 

TOURING  the  summer  and  winter  following  the  arrival 
-L^  of  Allan  Dorris  in  Davy's  Bend,  he  met  Annie  Benton 
at  intervals  after  their  strange  meeting  out  on  the  hills,  in 
spite  of  his  resolution  to  keep  out  of  her  way,  and  though 
he  was  convinced  more  than  ever  after  each  meeting  that 
their  acquaintance  was  dangerous,  he  candidly  admitted 
to  himself  that  he  was  powerless  to  resist  the  temptation 
to  see  her  when  opportunity  offered,  for  the  girl  waited  as 
anxiously  for  his  appearance  as  he  did  for  hers ;  she  was  as 
deeply  concerned  as  he  was,  and  while  this  circumstance 
afforded  him  a  kind  of  pleasure,  it  was  also  painful,  for 
he  felt  certain  that  no  good  could  come  of  it. 

Usually  he  attended  the  services  in  the  church  once  a 
week,  and  watched  the  organist  so  closely  that  she  always 
divined  his  presence,  and  looked  timidly  toward  where  he 
sat  when  opportunity  offered.  Dorris  believed  that  he 
could  cause  the  girl  to  think  of  him  by  looking  at  her, 
and  though  he  changed  his  position  at  every  service,  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  finally  seeing  her  pick  him  out,  and 
she  never  made  a  mistake,  always  looking  directly  at  him 
when  she  turned  her  head. 

After  the  people  were  dismissed,  he  occasionally  met 

her  at  the  door,  and  walked  home  with  her  behind  her 

glowering  father,  who  received  the  attentions  of  Dorris 

with  little  favor.     A  few  times  he  remained  in  the  church 

152 


THE  REBELLION  OF  THE  BARITONE.     153 

with  her  a  few  minutes  after  the  congregation  had  passed 
out,  but  after  each  meeting  he  felt  more  dissatisfied  than 
ever,  and  chafed  under  the  restraint  which  held  him  back 
A  few  times,  also,  he  went  into  the  house,  after  accom 
panying  her  home,  which  pleased  Annie  Benton  as  much 
as  it  displeased  old  Thompson,  but  somehow  he  did  not 
enjoy  her  company  there  as  he  did  when  she  was  alone  in 
the  church,  for  the  Ancient  Maiden,  as  well  as  the  Ancient 
Gentleman,  seemed  to  regard  him  with  suspicion  and  dis 
trust;  therefore  in  spite  of  his  vows  to  let  her  alone, 
which  he  had  made  with  honesty  and  sincerity,  he  called 
on  her  at  the  church  nearly  every  week. 

He  believed  that  he  was  entitled  to  some  credit  because 
he  only  saw  the  girl  occasionally,  for  he  longed  to  be  with 
her  continually;  and  there  were  times,  when  he  heard 
the  organ j  that  he  overcame  the  temptation  and  did  not 
enter  the  church.  On  these  occasions  he  turned  his  face 
doggedly  toward  The  Locks,  and  paced  up  and  down  in 
his  own  room  until  he  knew  the  temptation  was  removed ; 
when  he  would  go  out  into  the  yard  again,  hoping  that 
some  good  fortune  had  detained  the  player  longer  than 
usual,  and  that  he  would  meet  her  unexpectedly. 

This  same  spirit  caused  him  to  haunt  the  road  which 
she  frequented  on  her  visits  to  and  from  the  town,  and 
quite  often  he  had  occasion  to  appear  surprised  at  her 
approach  when  he  was  not,  when  he  would  walk  with  her 
one  way  or  the  other  until  it  seemed  necessary  for  them 
to  separate.  It  was  not  a  deep  ruse  —  nor  did  it  deceive 
himself,  for  he  often  laughed  at  its  absurdity  —  but  it 
afforded  occupation  to  a  man  who  was  idle  more  than  half 
his  time,  and  Allan  Dorris  was  like  other  men  in  the 
particular  that  he  wanted  to  do  right,  but  found  it  very 
difficult  when  inclination  led  in  the  other  direction. 
When  they  met  in  this  manner,  each  usually  had  time  to 


154  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

say  only  enough  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  the  other,  and 
to  cause  them  to  long  for  another  meeting,  and  thus  the 
winter  was  passed,  and  the  early  spring  came  on ;  the 
season  of  quarreling  between  frost  and  sunshine. 

On  a  certain  wild  March  evening,  after  a  day  of  idleness 
and  longing  to  see  the  girl,  Dorris  put  on  his  heavy  coat 
and  walked  in  the  yard,  up  and  down  the  old  path  under 
the  trees,  which  gave  evidences  of  his  restless  footsteps 
even  in  the  snows  of  winter.  As  soon  as  he  came  out  he 
heard  the  music,  and  between  his  strong  desire  to  see  the 
player,  and  his  conviction  that  he  should  never  enter  her 
presence,  he  resolved  to  leave  Davy's  Bend  and  never 
return.  He  could  better  restrain  his  love  for  her  in  some 
distant  town  than  in  Davy's  Bend,  therefore  he  would  go 
away,  and  try  to  forget.  This  gave  him  an  excuse  to 
enter  the  church,  though  he  only  intended  to  bid  her 
good-by ;  and  so  impatient  was  he  that  he  scaled  the 
wall,  and  jumped  down  on  the  outside,  instead  of  passing 
out  at  the  gate. 

Annie  Benton  was  watching  for  him  when  he  stepped  into 
her  presence  from  the  vestibule,  and  as  lie  walked  up  the 
aisle  he  saw  so  much  pleasure  in  her  face  that  he  regret 
ted  to  make  the  announcement  of  his  departure  ;  but  he 
knew  it  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  and  did  not  hesitate. 
He  even  thought  of  the  prospect  that  she  might  regret 
his  determination,  and  say  so,  which  would  greatly  please 
him. 

"  I  have  concluded  to  leave  Davy's  Bend,"  he  said,  as 
he  took  the  hand  she  offered  him,  "  and  have  called  to 
say  good-by.  As  soon  as  I  can  dispose  of  my  effects  I 
will  leave  this  forbidden  ground,  and  travel  so  far  that 
I  will  forget  the  way  back.  The  more  I  see  of  you,  the 
more  I  love  you;  and  if  I  continue  to  live  in  sight  of 
your  house,  I  will  finally  forget  everything  except  that  I 


THE  BEBELLIO2ST   OF    THE  BARITONE.  155 

love  you,  and  do  you  a  great  harm.  It  will  not  take  me 
long  to  settle  up  my  affairs,  and  within  a  few  days,  at  the 
farthest,  I  shall  be  gone." 

The  smile  on  Annie  Benton's  pretty  face  vanished  at 
once,  as  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  from  him,  at  the 
same  time  trying  to  run  her  fingers  over  the  keys ;  but 
they  had  lost  their  cunning,  and  her  hands  soon  lay  idly 
on  the  keyboards.  When  Dorris  finally  caught  her  head 
gently,  and  turned  it  toward  him,  he  saw  that  tears  were 
in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  attempt  to  hide  this,  and  quietly 
submitted  when  he  brushed  them  away. 

"  It  pains  me  to  know  that  you  regret  this  announce 
ment,"  Dorris  said,  after  looking  at  her  a  moment,  "  though 
it  would  pain  me  more  to  believe  that  you  did  not.  It 
seems  to  be  always  so ;  there  is  sorrow  in  everything  for 
me.  I  have  cursed  myself  a  thousand  times  for  this 
quality,  and  thought  ill  of  a  nature  which  had  no  peace 
or  content  in  it.  I  have  hated  myself  for  years  because 
of  the  belief  that  nothing  would  satisfy  me ;  that  I  would 
tire  of  everything  I  coveted,  and  that  I  was  born  a  misan 
thrope  and  an  embodied  unrest.  When  I  have  envied 
others  their  content,  I  have  always  concluded  afterwards 
that  there  was  something  in  my  nature  opposed  to  peace, 
and  that  I  was  doomed  to  a  restless  life,  always  seek 
ing  that  which  could  not  be  found.  I  have  always  be 
lieved  that  my  acquaintances  have  had  this  opinion  of  me, 
and  that  for  this  reason  they  did  not  grant  me  the  charity 
I  felt  the  need  of.  But  now  that  I  am  going  away,  and 
will  never  see  you  again,  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my  say 
ing  that  your  absence  has  been  the  cause  of  the  unrest 
which  has  always  beset  me.  Long  before  I  knew  you 
existed  I  was  looking  for  you ;  and  I  know  now  that  all 
my  discontent  would  have  vanished  had  I  been  free  to 
make  honorable  love  to  you  when  we  first  met.  In  our 


156       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

weakness  we  are  permitted  to  know  a  few  things ;  I  know 
this  to  be  true." 

"  Since  you  have  always  wished  me  to  take  no  interest 
in  this  acquaintance  of  ours,"  Annie  Benton  replied,  in 
a  tone  which  might  have  been  only  sullen,  but  it  sounded 
very  much  like  the  voice  of  an  earnest  woman  expressing 
vexation  and  regret,  "  let  me  at  least  express  in  words 
what  I  have  often  expressed  in  my  actions  —  that  I  would 
have  long  ago  shown  you  that  your  affection  was  returned ; 
that  you  are  not  more  concerned  than  I  am.  I  have  al 
ways  been  in  doubt  as  to  what  my  course  should  be ;  but 
let  me  say  this,  in  justice  to  my  intelligence,  though  it  be 
a  discredit  to  my  womanhood,  you  can  never  love  me 
more  than  I  do  you.  Nor  do  you  more  sincerely  regret 
the  necessity  which  you  say  exists  for  your  going 
away." 

"I  hope  I  do  not  take  undue  credit  to  myself,"  he  re 
plied,  "  when  I  say  that  I  have  known  this  ever  since  our 
acquaintance  began,  and  I  only  asked  you  to  remain 
silent  because  I  could  not  have  controlled  myself  with 
declarations  of  love  from  your  lips  ringing  in  my  ears. 
You  trusted  my  judgment  fully,  and  refused  to  hear  the 
reasons  why  I  said  our  acquaintance  was  dangerous ;  and 
I  will  deserve  that  confidence  by  going  away,  for  I  know 
that  is  the  best  thing  to  do.  Sometimes  there  is  a  little 
pleasure  in  a  great  sorrow.  I  have  known  mothers  to  find 
pleasure  in  talking  of  their  dead  children,  and  J  find  a 
fascination  in  talking  to  you  about  a  love  which  can  never 
be  realized.  Heretofore  I  have  been  a  man  shut  up  in  a 
dungeon,  craving  sunlight,  hating  myself  because  I  came 
to  believe  that  there  was  no  sunlight ;  now  I  realize  that 
sunlight  was  a  natural  necessity  for  my  well-being,  for  I 
have  found  it,  and  it  is  all  I  hoped.  But  I  must  go  back 
into  the  dungeon,  and  the  necessity  is  more  disagreeable 


THE   REBELLION   OF   THE   BAEITOJ^.  157 

than  I  can  tell  you.  I  am  an  average  man  in  every  respect 
save  that  I  feel  that  I  have  never  had  an  average  man's 
chance  in  this  matter  of  love,  and  fret  because  of  it. 
That  which  I  crave  may  be  a  mistake  of  the  fancy,  but  I 
am  not  convinced  of  it;  therefore  I  am  not  as  philan 
thropic  as  those  who  have  outgrown  in  experience  an 
infatuation  such  as  I  feel  for  you.  I  have  tried  every 
thing  else,  and  have  learned  to  be  indifferent,  with  all  my 
idols  broken  and  dishonored  at  my  feet ;  but  there  is  a 
possibility  in  love  which  I  can  never  know  anything 
about." 

While  the  girl  was  listening,  there  were  times  when 
Dorris  thought  she  would  'interrupt  him,  and  make  the 
declaration  which  he  had  forbidden;  but  she  controlled 
herself,  and  looked  steadily  away  from  him. 

"  It  may  occur  to  you  as  strange  —  it  is  strange  —  that 
while  I  declare  my  love  for  you,  I  run  away  from  it.  In 
explanation  I  could  only  repeat  what  I  have  said  before ; 
that  it  is  for  your  good  that  I  have  adopted  this  course. 
Had  you  listened  to  my  brief  story,  you  would  now 
understand  why  my  going  away  seems  to  be  necessary ; 
since  you  preferred  not  to,  I  can  only  say  in  general 
terms  that  nothing  could  happen,  except  good  fortune, 
which  would  surprise  me.  I  am  surrounded  by  danger, 
and  while  my  life  has  been  one  long  regret,  the  greatest 
regret  of  all  is  that  which  I  experience  in  leaving  you. 
Were  I  to  consult  my  own  bent,  I  would  deny  all  that  I 
have  intimated  to  my  discredit,  and  make  such  love  to 
you  that  you  could  not  resist  it  ;  but  I  love  you,  and  this 
course  would  not  prove  it.  We  are  doing  now  what 
millions  of  people  have  done  before  us ;  making  a  sacrifice 
for  the  right  against  strong  inclinations,  and  we  should 
meet  it  bravely.  There  is  no  hesitation  in  my  manner,  I 
hope." 


158  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE   LOCKS. 

Annie  Benton  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  saw  that 
he  was  trembling  and  very  much  agitated. 

"Then  why  are  you  trembling?"  she  asked. 

"Because  of  the  chill  in  the  air,  I  presume,"  he  answered, 
"  for  I  am  very  determined  to  carry  out  my  resolution. 
I  might  tremble  with  excitement  in  resolving  to  rescue  a 

o  o 

friend  from  danger,  though  it  would  not  indicate  a  lack 

O          '  O 

of  courage.     You  are  willing  for  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  Since  you  say  it  is  for  the  best,"  she  replied,  "  yes." 
Believing  that  he  had  said  all  that  was  necessary,  Allan 
Dorris  hesitated  between  going  away  and  remaining. 
Walking  over  to  the  window,  and  looking  out,  he  saw 
that  the  light  he  had  been  talking  about  was  fading  away 
from  the  earth,  as  it  was  fading  away  from  him,  and  that 
the  old  night  was  coming  back.  A  hill-top  he  saw  in  the 
distance  he  likened  to  himself;  resisting  until  the  last 
moment,  but  without  avail,  for  the  darkness  was  gradually 
climbing  up  its  sides,  and  would  soon  cover  it. 

"You  will  no  doubt  think  that  I  should  have  kept 
away  from  you  when  I  saw  that  my  pi-esence  was  not 
objectionable,  and  that  our  acquaintance  would  finally 
result  in  this,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  the  girl,  and  stand 
ing  by  her  side,  "  but  I  could  not ;  let  me  acknowledge 
my  fault,  and  say  that  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  enter  the  only  presence  which 
has  ever  afforded  me  pleasure,  try  hard  as  I  could,  so  I 
kept  it  up  until  I  am  now  forced  to  run  away  from  it. 
Do  I  make  my  meaning  clear?" 

"  Perfectly,"  she  replied,  without  looking  around. 
"  Life  is  so  unsatisfactory  that  it  affords  nothing  of  per 
manent  value  except  the  love  and  respect  of  a  worthy, 
intelligent,  and  agreeable  woman.  It  is  the  favor  I  have 
sought,  and  found  too  late.  It  is  fortunate  that  you  are 
not  as  reckless  as  I  am ;  otherwise  no  restraint  would  keep 


THE   REBELLION   OF  THE   BARITONE.          159 

us  apart.  But  for  the  respect  I  have  for  your  good  name, 
I  would  steal  you,  and  teach  you  to  love  me  in  some  far 
away  place." 

"  You  have  taught  me  already,"  the  girl  timidly  replied, 
still  looking  away. 

"  Don't  say  that,"  Dorris  said  in  alarm.  "  That  pleases 
me,  for  it  is  depravity,  and  everything  depraved  seems 
to  suit  me.  You  must  say  nothing  which  pleases  me,  else 
I  will  fail  in  my  resolve.  Say  everything  you  can  to  hurt 
my  feelings,  but  nothing  to  please  me." 

"  I  cannot  help  saying  it,"  she  replied,  rising  from  her 
seat  at  the  organ,  and  facing  him.  "  If  it  is  depravity  to 
love  you,  I  like  depravity,  too." 

"  Annie,"  Dorris  said,  touching  her  arm,  "  be  careful  of 
what  you  say." 

"  I  must  say  it,"  she  returned,  with  a  flushed  face ;  "  I 
am  only  a  woman,  and  you  don't  know  how  much  weak 
ness  that  implies.  I  am  flesh  and  blood,  like  yourself  ;  but 
you  have  made  love  to  me  as  though  I  were  an  unconsci 
ous  picture.  I  fear  that  you  do  not  understand  woman 
kind,  and  that  you  have  made  an  idol  of  me ;  an  idol 
which  will  fall,  and  break  at  your  feet.  My  love  for  you 
has  come  to  me  as  naturally  as  my  years,  and  I  want  you 
to  know  when  you  go  away  that  my  heart  Avill  be  in 
your  keeping.  Why  may  not  I  avow  my  love  as  well  as 
you  ?  Why  may  not  I,  too,  express  regret  that  you  are 
going  away  ?  " 

The  girl  asked  the  question  with  a  candor  which 
surprised  him ;  there  was  the  innocence  of  a  child  in  her 
manner,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  a  woman  thoroughly  in 
earnest. 

"  For  the  reason  that  when  I  am  gone  it  will  be  in  the 
nature  of  things  for  you  to  forget  me,"  he  replied.  "  You 
are  young,  and  do  not  know  your  heart  as  well  as  I  know 


160       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

mine.  In  course  of  time  you  will  probably  form  an  honor 
able  alliance;  then  you  will  regret  having  said  this  to 
me." 

"  It  will  always  be  a  pleasure  for  me  to  remember  how 
ardently  I  have  loved  you,"  she  replied,  trembling  and 
faltering,  as  though  not  quite  certain  that  the  course  she 
was  pursuing  was  right.  "  I  will  never  feel  ashamed  of 
ify  no  matter  if  I  should  live  forever.  It  may  not  be 
womanly  for  me  to  say  so ;  but  I  can  never  forget  you. 
Your  attentions  to  me  have  been  so  delicate,  and  so  well 
calculated  to  win  a  woman's  affection,  that  I  want  you  to 
know  that,  but  for  this  hindrance  you  speak  of,  your  dream 
might  be  realized.  If  I  am  the  Maid  of  Air,  the  Maid  of 
Air  returns  your  affection.  Surely  my  regard  for  you 
may  excuse  my  saying  this,  now  that  you  are  going 
away,  for  you  may  think  of  it  with  pleasure  in  your  future 
loneliness.  I  appreciate  your  love  so  much  that  I  must 
tell  you  that  it  is  returned." 

They  were  standing  close  together  on  the  little  plat 
form  in  front  of  the  organ,  and  the  girl  leaned  against 
him  in  such  a  manner  that  he  put  his  left  arm  around  her 
shoulders  to  support  her.  Her  head  rested  on  his  arm, 
and  she  was  looking  full  into  his  face.  The  excitement 
under  which  she  seemed  to  labor  lent  such  a  charm  to  her 
face  that  Allan  Dorris  thought  that  surely  it  must  be  the 
handsomest  in  the  world. 

"  Kiss  me,"  she  said  suddenly. 

The  suggestion  frightened  the  great  brawny  fellow,  who 
might  have  picked  up  his  companion  and  ran  away  with 
her  without  the  slightest  inconvenience;  for  he  looked 
around  the  room  in  alarm. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  will  or  not,"  he  replied,  look 
ing  steadily  at  her.  "  "Were  you  ever  kissed  before  ?  " 

"  By  my  father ;  by  no  one  else." 


THE   REBELLION   OF    THE   BARITONE.  161 

"  Then  I  think  I  will  refuse,"  he  said,  "  though  I  would 
give  twenty  years  of  my  life  to  grant  your  request. 
What  a  request  it  is !  It  appeals  to  me  with  such  force 
that  I  feel  a  weakness  in  my  eyes  because  of  the  warmth 
in  my  heart,  and  the  hot  blood  never  ran  races  through 
my  veins  before  as  it  is  doing  now.  You  have  complete 
possession  of  my  heart,  and  I  am  a  better  man  than  I  was 
before,  for  you  are  pure  and  good ;  if  I  have  a  soul,  it 
has  forgotten  its  immortality  in  loving  this  earthy  being 
in  my  arms.  But  it  is  the  proudest  boast  of  a  loyal  wife 
that  no  lips  save  those  of  her  husband  ever  touched  hers, 
and  my  regard  for  you  is  such  that  I  do  not  wish  to 
detract  from  the  peace  of  your  future.  If  I  have  made 
an  idol  of  you,  let  me  go  away  without  discovering  my 
mistake ;  grant  me  the  privilege  of  remembering  you  as 
the  realization  of  all  my  dreaming.  In  a  year  from  now 
you  will  only  remember  me  to  thank  me  for  this  refusal 
of  your  request." 

"  In  a  year  from  now  I  will  feel  just  as  I  do  now.  I 
will  never  change.  I  will  have  only  this  to  remember 
you  by,  and  my  acquaintance  with  you  has  been  the  only 
event  in  my  life  worth  remembering.  Please  kiss  me." 

He  hurriedly  pressed  her  lips  to  his  own,  and  looked 
around  as  though  he  half  expected  to  be  struck  dead  for 
the  sacrilege,  but  nothing  serious  resulted,  and  the  girl 
continued  to  talk  without  changing  her  position. 

"  I  have  never  regretted  the  restraint  which  is  expected 
of  women  until  I  knew  you,  for  why  should  I  not  express 
my  preferences  as  well  as  you?  In  my  lonely,  dreamy 
childhood,  I  had  few  acquaintances  and  fewer  friends, 
and  you  have  supplied  a  want  which  I  hardly  knew 
existed  before.  Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  have 
longed  so  much  to  know  the  people  in  the  great  world 
from  which  you  came  that  I  accepted  you  as  a  messenger 


162  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

from  them,  and  you  interested  and  pleased  me  even  more 
than  I  expected.  My  life  has  always  been  lonely,  though 
not  unhappy,  and  the  people  I  read  of  in  books  I  accepted 
as  the  people  who  lived  outside  of  Davy's  Bend,  in  the 
cities  by  the  lakes  and  seas,  where  there  is  culture  as  well 
as  plenty.  I  have  been  familiar  with  their  songs,  and 
played  them  on  the  organ  when  I  should  have  been  prac 
tising  ;  everything  I  have  'read  of  them  I  have  put  to 
music,  and  played  it  over  and  over.  Once  I  read  of  a 
great  man  who  died,  and  who  was  buried  from  a  church 
filled  with  distinguished  mourners.  The  paper  said  that 
when  the  people  were  all  in  their  seats,  the  voice  of  a 
great  singer  broke  the  stillness,  in  a  song  of  hope,  and  I 
have  imitated  the  voice  on  the  organ,  and  imagined  that 
I  was  playing  a  requiem  over  distinguished  dust ;  but  in 
future  I  shall  think  only  of  you  when  I  play  the  funeral 
march.  Since  I  have  known  you,  I  have  thought  of  little 
else,  and  I  shall  mourn  your  departure  as  though  you  had 
always  been  a  part  of  me.  If  I  dared,  I  would  ask  you 
on  my  knees  to  remain." 

"  I  have  heard  you  play  the  songs  to  which  you  refer," 
Dorris  replied  musingly,  "and  I  have  thought  that  you 
played  them  with  so  much  expression  that,  could  their 
authors  have  listened  to  the  performance,  they  would 
have  discovered  new  beauties  in  them.  I  never  knew  a 
player  before  who  could  render  the  words  of  a  song  as 
well  as  the  music.  You  do  it,  and  with  so  much  genius 
that  I  wonder  that  you  have  nothing  but  the  cold,  pas 
sionless  notes  to  guide  you.  One  dark  afternoon  you 
played  '  I  Dreamt  I  Dwelt  in  Marble  Halls,'  and  a  savage 
could  have  told  what  the  words  were.  The  entire 
strength  of  the  organ  seemed  to  be  united  in  the  mourn 
ful  air,  and  the  timid  accompaniment  was  peopled  with 
the  other  characters  in  the  play  from  which  the  song  is 


THE   REBELLION   OF   THE  BAKITOXE.  163 

taken.  That  represented  you;  but  you  have  had  me 
before  the  organ,  telling  all  I  knew,  a  hundred  times. 
Although  you  have  refused  to  hear  my  story,  you  seem  to 
know  it ;  for  you  have  told  it  on  the  organ  as  many  times 
as  I  have  thought  of  it." 

"  If  I  have  told  your  story  on  the  organ,"  the  girl  said, 
"  there  must  have  been  declarations  in  it  that  you  were  a 
brave,  an  honorable,  and  an  unfortunate  man,  for  I  have 
always  thought  that  of  you.  In  spite  of  all  you  have  said 
to  me  against  yourself,  I  have  never  doubted  this  for  a 
moment,  and  I  would  trust  you  to  any  extent." 

"If  I  expect  to  carry  out  my  resolution,"  Allan  Dorris 
replied,  as  though  in  anger,  though  it  was  really  an  unspoken 
protest  against  doing  a  disagreeable  thing,  "  I  must  hear 
no  more  of  this;  a  very  little  more  of  what  you  have 
said,  and  retreat  will  be  impossible.  But  before  I  leave 
you,  let  me  say  this  :  You  once  said  I  was  an  odd  man ; 
I  will  tell  you  why.  I  seem  to  be  an  odd  man  because 
you  have  heard  every  sentiment  there  is  in  my  heart ;  I 
have  kept  nothing  back.  The  men  you  have  known 
were  close-mouthed  and  suspicious,  knowing  that  what 
ever  they  said  was  likely  to  be  repeated,  and  this  made 
them  cautious.  Place  other  men  in  my  situation  as  to 
loneliness  and  misfortune,  and  I  would  not  seem  so  unu 
sual.  There  are  plenty  of  staid  business  men  who  are  as 
'odd'  as  I  am,  but  they  have  never  been  moved  to  tell 
their  secrets,  as  I  have  done  to  you.  Even  were  your 
honorable  father  to  express  the  love  he  feels  for  your  dead 
mother,  it  would  sound  sentimental  and  foolish,  and  sur 
prise  his  acquaintances ;  but  rest  assured  that  every  man 
will  turn  out  a  strange  creature  when  you  get  his  confi 
dence.  I  say  this  in  justice  to  myself,  but  it  is  the  truth. 
AVhen  you"  know  any  man  thoroughly,  you  either  think 
.  more  or  less  of  him." 


1G4  THE   MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"I  don't  dare  to  tell  you  what  is" in  my  mind,"  Annie 
Benton  said,  as  she  stood  beside  him,  his  arm  still 
around  her.  "It  would  startle  you,  and  perhaps  cause 
you  to  change  the  good  opinion  you  have  expressed  of 
me ;  but  there  can  be  no  harm  in  my  saying  this  —  every 
day  of  our  acquaintance  has  brought  me  more  respect 
and  love  for  you.  Let  me  pay  you  the  poor  compliment 
of  saying  that  the  more  I  know  of  you,  the  more  I  respect 
and  honor  you." 

"I  believe  I  deserve  that,"  he  replied.  "I  have  more 
than  my  share  of  faults,  but  it  has  always  been  a  comfort 
for  me  to  know  that  my  best  friends  are  those  who  know 
most  of  me.  But  though  I  have  faults,  I  am  not  the  less 
sensitive.  I  believe  that  should  I  kill  a  man,  I  would  as 
keenly  feel  the  slights  of  my  fellows  as  would  one  whose 
hands  were  clean.  Should  I  become  so  offensive  to  man 
kind  as  to  merit  banishment,  my  wickedness  would  not 
cause  me  to  forget  my  loneliness.  My  mistakes  have 
been  as  trifling  in  their  nature,  and  as  innocent,  as  neglect 
to  lock  a  door  in  a  community  of  thieves;  but  I  have 
been  punished  as  severely  as  though  I  had  murdered  a 
toAvn.  The  thieves  have  pursued  and  beaten  me  because 
I  carelessly  permitted  them  to  steal  my  substance ;  and 
the  privilege  of  touching  a  pure  woman's  lips  with  my 
own,  and  folding  her  in  my  arms,  becomes  a  serious 
wrong,  though  it  has  only  brought  me  a  joy  which  other 
men  have  known,  and  no  harm  came  of  it." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  do  anything  that  is  wrong,"  the  girl 
said,  with  some  alarm,  stepping  away  from  him,  as  if 
frightened  at  her  situation ;  "  but  on  the  score  of  friendship, 
I  may  say  that  I  shall  be  very  lonely  when  you  are  gone. 
Davy's  Bend  was  never  an  agreeable  place,  but  I  was 
content  with  it  until  you  came  and  filled  me  with  ambi^ 
tion.  I  wanted  to  become  worthy  of  the  many  kind 


THE   REBELLION  OF   THE   BARITONE.          165 

things  you  said  of  me ;  I  hoped  that  I  might  distinguish 
myself  in  some  way,  and  cause  you  to  rejoice  that  you  had 
predicted  well  of  me,  but  now  that  you  are  going  away, 
you  will  never  know  of  it  even  if  I  succeed.  I  may  regret 
your  departure  on  this  account,  if  nothing  else.  I  do  re 
gret  it  for  another  reason,  but  you  reprimand  me  for  say 
ing  it." 

The  dogged  look  which  distinguished  him  when  think 
ing  came  into  his  face  again,  and  though  he  seemed  to 

O  O  '  ~ 

be  paying  no  attention,  he  was  listening  with  keen  in 
terest. 

"  Regret  seems  to  be  the  common  inheritance,"  he  said, 
after  a  protracted  silence  between  them.  "  Your  regret 
makes  me  stronger ;  it  convinces  me  that  I  am  not  its  only 
victim.  Duty  is  a  master  we  must  all  obey,  though  I 
wonder  that  so  many  heed  its  demands,  since  it  seldom 
leads  us  in  the  direction  we  would  travel.  The  busy 
world  is  full  of  people  who  are  making  sacrifices  for  duty 
as  great  as  yours  and  mine  ;  let  us  not  fail  in  doing  ours. 
In  the  name  of  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved,  I  ask  you  to 
bid  me  good-by  with  indifference.  For  the  good  of  the 
best  woman  in  the  world,  play  a  joyful  march  while  I 
leave  your  presence,  never  to  return." 

Without  another  word,  the  girl  sprang  to  her  seat  at 
the  organ,  and  Allan  Dorris  having  awakened  the,  sleeping 
janitor,  the  music  commenced ;  a  march  of  joy,  to  the 
time  of  which  he  left  the  church  without  once  looking 
back. 

But  on  reaching  the  outside  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  look  once  more  at  Annie  Benton;  so  he 
climbed  up  to  his  old  position  on  the  wall,  and  looked 
at  her  through  the  broken  pane. 

,t  He  saw  her  look  around,  as  if  to  convince  herself  that 
he  was  gone,  when  the  music  changed  from  joy  to  regret 


166  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

while  her  face  was  yet  turned  toward  the  door  at  which 
he  had  departed.  She  was  thinking,  and  expressing  her 
thoughts  with  the  pipes,  and  Allan  Dorris  knew  what  she 
was  thinking  as  well  as  if  she  were  speaking  the  words. 
There  were  occasional  passages  in  the  music  so  fierce  and 
wild  that  he  knew  the  girl  was  struggling  with  desperate 
thoughts ;  nor  could  she  easily  get  rid  of  them,  for  the 
reckless  tones  seemed  to  be  fighting  for  mastery  over  the 
gentler  ones.  The  old  baritone  air  again  ;  but  strong  and 
courageous  now,  instead  of  mournful,  and  it  seemed  to  be 
muttering  that  it  had  ceased  to  be  forbearing,  and  had  no 

O  O' 

respect  for  customs,  or  usages,  or  matters  of  conscience  ; 
indeed,  there  was  a  certain  reckless  abandon  in  it  which 
caused  the  listener  to  compare  it  to  the  roaring  song  of  a 
man  reeling  home  to  squalor  and  poverty  —  a  sort  of  dec- 
laration  that  he  liked  squalor  and  poverty  better  than  any 
thing  else.  The  mild  notes  of  the  accompaniment  with 
the  right  hand  —  how  like  entreating  human  voices  they 
sounded  —  a  chord  of  self-respect,  of  love  of  home,  of 
duty,  in  all  their  persuasive  changes,  urging  the  enraged 
baritone  air  to  be  reasonable,  and  return  to  the  pacific 
state  which  it  had  honored  so  long ;  but  the  baritone  ail- 
continued  to  threaten  to  break  over  all  restraint,  and  be 
come  as  wild  and  fierce  as  it  sounded.  Occasionally  the 
chord  of  self  respect,  of  love  of  home,  and  of  duty,  seemed 
to  gain  the  mastery,  but  the  wicked  baritone  broke  away 
again,  though  it  was  growing  more  mild  and  tractable, 
and  Allan  Dorris  thought  that  it  must  finally  succumb  to 
the  eloquent  appeal  in  the  treble.  "  I  have  been  mild  and 
gentle  all  my  life"  —  it  seemed  to  be  grumbling  the 
words,  as  an  apology  for  giving  in,  instead  of  declaring 
them  as  an  excuse  for  breaking  over  all  restraint  —  "  and 
what  good  has  it  done  me  ?  Am  I  happier  than  those  who 
have  mingled  joys  with  their  regrets?  My  mild  sacrifices 


THE   REBELLION   OF   THE   BARITONE.         167 

have  resulted  in  nothing,  and  I  am  tempted  to  try  what  a 
little  spirit  will  do." 

But  the  unruly  spirit  was  pacified  at  last,  and  the  music 
resolved  itself  into  a  lullaby  of  the  kind  which  mothers 
sing  to  their  children  ;  it  may  have  been  a  recollection  of 
the  player's  own  childhood,  for  it  soon  caused  her  to  bow 
her  head  on  the  keyboard,  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN. 

"TANE  BENTON",  old  Thompson's  maiden  sister,  was 
*s  as  good  as  anybody,  though  no  one  urged  the  point 
as  steadily  as  she  did  herself.  Had  the  President  walked 
into  Jane  Benton's  presence,  she  would  have  believed  that 
he  had  heard  of  her  (although  there  was  no  reason 
that  she  should  entertain  that  opinion)  and  had  called  to 
pay  his  respects ;  and  instead  of  being  timid  in  so  great  a 
presence,  she  would  have  expected  him  to  be  timid  in 
hers. 

There  were  people  who  cared  to  distinguish  themselves  : 
very  well,  let  them  do  it ;  but  Jane  Benton  did  not  have 
that  ambition,  though  she  had  the  ability,  and  could  have 
easily  made  a  name  for  herself  which  would  have  gone 
thundering  down  the  ages.  Let  other  people  distinguish 
themselves  and  pay  the  price ;  Jane  Benton  was  distin 
guished  naturally  —  effort  was  not  necessary  in  her  case. 
If  the  people  did  not  acknowledge  it,  it  was  their  loss,  not 
hers. 

The  Ancient  Maiden  was  a  book-worm,  and  devoured 
everything  she  heard  of ;  but  only  with  a  determination 
to  tear  it  to  pieces,  for  of  course  no  one  could  hope  to 
amuse  or  instruct  a  lady  of  forty-five,  who  not  only  knew 
everything  worth  knowing  already,  but  who  had  taught 
school  in  her  younger  days  on  the  strength  of  a  certificate 
ranging  from  ninety-eight  to  ninety-nine.  This  certificate 
had  been  issued  by  three  learned  men,  each  one  of  whom 
168 


THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN.  169 

knew  absolutely  everything ;  and  it  was  agreed  by  them 
that  Jane  Benton  should  have  had  an  even  hundred  but 
for  the  circumstance  that  her  "  hand  write  "  was  a  little 
crooked.  This  fault  had  since  been  remedied,  and  the  An 
cient  Maiden  still  retained  the  certificate,  and  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  conclusion  by  the  three  learned  men,  as  an 
evidence  that,  so  far  as  education  was  concerned,  she 
lacked  nothing  whatever. 

When  she  consented  to  favor  a  book  by  looking  through 
it,  there  was  unutterable  disgust  on  her  features  as  she 
possessed  herself  of  the  contents,  since  she  felt  nothing 
but  contempt  for  the  upstarts  who  attempted  to  amuse  or 
instruct  so  great  a  woman  as  Jane  Benton.  And  her 
patience  was  usually  rewarded. 

Thompson !  Annie  !  Ring  the  bells,  and  run  here  !  The 
ignorant  .pretender  has  been  found  out!  A  turned  letter 
in  the  book !  A  that  for  a  which !  A  will  for  a  shall !  A 
-would  for  a  should!  Hurrah!  Announce  it  to  the 
people !  Another  pretender  found  out !  Lock  the  book 
up !  It  is  worthless !  Jane  Benton's  greatness,  so  long 
in  doubt,  is  vindicated ! 

But  while  there  is  not  a  perfect  book  in  existence  now, 
there  is  likely  to  be  one,  providing  Jane  Benton  lives  three 
or  four  hundred  years  longer,  for  the  thought  has  often 
occurred  to  her  that  she  ought  to  do  something  for  the 

<j  o 

race,  although  it  does  not  deserve  such  a  kindness,  as  a 
pattern  for  all  future  writers.  She  has  done  nothing  in 
forty-five  years ;  but  she  has  been  busy  during  that  time, 
no  doubt,  in  preparing  for  a  book  which  will  not  only  as 
tonish  the  living,  but  cause  the  dead  to  crawl  out  of  their 
graves,  and  feel  ashamed  of  themselves.  Let  the  people 
go  on  in  their  mad  ignorance  ;  Jane  Benton  is  preparing 
to  point  out  their  errors,  and  in  the  course  of  the  present 
century  —  certainly  not  later  than  toward  the  close  of  the 


170  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

next  one — a  new  prophet  will  appear  in  such  robes  of 
splendid  perfection  that  even  the  earth  will  acknowledge 
its  imperfections,  and  creep  off  into  oblivion. 

But  notwithstanding  her  rather  remarkable  conceit, 
Jane  Benton  was  a  useful  woman.  For  fifteen  years  she 
had  "  pottered  around,"  as  old  Thompson  said,  and  made 
her  brother's  home  a  pleasant  one.  Since  she  could  not 
set  the  world  on  lire,  she  said  she  did  not  want  to,  and 
at  least  knew  her  own  home  perfectly,  and  had  it  under 
thorough  control.  When  old  Thompson  needed  any 
thing,  and  ransacked  the  house  until  he  concluded  that  it 
had  been  burned  up,  his  sister  Jane  could  put  her  hand 
on  the  article  immediately;  and  perhaps  Jane  Benton's 
genius,  in  which  she  had  so  much  confidence,  was  a  genius 
for  attempting  only  what  she  could  do  well ;  for  whatever 
her  intentions  were,  she  had  certainly  accomplished 
nothing,  except  to  distinguish  her  brother's  house  as  the 
neatest  and  cleanest  in  Davy's  Bend. 

Notwithstanding  her  lofty  ambitions,  and  her  marvellous 
capacity  in  higher  walks,  she  was  jealous  of  what  she  had 
really  accomplished ;  and  the  servant  girl  who  promised 
to  be  industrious  and  generally  satisfactory  around  old 
Thompson's  house  was  soon  presented  with  her  walking 
papers,  for  Jane  Benton  believed  that  she  was  the  only 
woman  alive  who  knew  the  secret  of  handling  dishes  with 
out  breaking  them,  or  of  sweeping  a  carpet  without  ruin 
ing  it ;  therefore  a  servant  who  threatened  to  become  a 
rival  was  soon  sent  away,  and  a  less  thrifty  one  procured, 
who  afforded  the  mistress  opportunity  of  regretting  that 
the  girls  of  recent  years  knew  nothing,  and  stubbornly 
refused  to  learn.  Old  Thompson  had  been  heard  to  say 
once,  after  his  sister  had  ordered  the  cook  to  leave  in  an 
hour,  that  he  would  finally  be  called  upon  to  send  his 
daughter  Annie  away,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  she 


THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN.  171 

was  useful,  and  careful,  and  industrious,  and  sensible ;  but 
the  Ancient  Maiden  had  good  sense,  in  spite  of  her  eccen 
tricities,  and  dearly  loved  her  pretty  niece;  and  it  is 
probable  that  old  Thompson  only  made  the  remark  in 
fun. 

Thompson  Benton  was  too  sensible  a  man  to  go  hungry 
in  anticipation  of  improbable  feasts  in  the  future ;  there 
fore  his  sister  Jane  and  his  daughter  Annie  were  well 
provided  for ;  and  were  seated  in  a  rather  elegant  room  in  a 
rather  elegant  house,  on  a  certain  wet  afternoon  in  the 
spring  of  the  year,  busy  with  their  work.  The  girl  had 
been  quiet  and  thoughtful  all  day,  but  finally  she  startled 
her  aunt  by  inquiring,  — 

"  Aunt  Jane,  were  you  ever  in  love  ?  " 

The  Ancient  Maiden  dropped  her  work,  and  looked  at 
the  girl  in  indignation  and  astonishment. 

"  Annie,"  she  sharply  said,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  ask 
ing  me  such  a  question  as  that?" 

The  Ancient  Maiden  was  particularly  severe  on  the 
men  who  attempted  to  write  books,  but  the  sex  in  general 
was  her  abomination.  Every  man  who  paid  court  to  a 
young  woman,  in  Jane  Benton's  opinion,  was  a  married 
man,  with  a  large  family  of  children ;  and  though  it 
sometimes  turned  out  that  those  she  accused  of  this 
offence  were  only  twenty  years  old,  or  such  a  matter,  she 
said  that  made  no  difference ;  they  had  married  young, 
probably,  and  investigation  would  reveal  that  they  had 
ten  or  twelve  ragged  children  and  a  pale  wife  somewhere 
in  poverty.  Therefore  the  presumption  of  the  girl  in 
asking  such  a  question  caused  her  to  repeat  again,  and 
with  more  indignation  than  before :  — 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  asking  me  such  a  question  as 
that?" 

Annie  Benton  was  like  her  father  in  another  particular ; 


172       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

she  was  not  afraid  of  Jane,  for  they  both  loved  her; 
therefore  she  was  not  frightened  at  her  indignation,  but 

O  O  ' 

laughingly  insisted  on  the  question. 

"But  were  you  ever  in  love?" 

"Annie,"  her  aunt  replied,  this  time  with  an  air  of 
insulted  dignity,  "  I  shall  speak  to  your  father  about  this 
when  he  comes  home  to-night.  The  idea  of  a  chit  of  a 
girl  like  you  asking  me  if  I  have  ever  been  in  love !  You 
have  known  me  all  your  life ;  have  I  ever  acted  as  though 
I  were  in  love  ?  " 

"The  question  is  easy  to  answer,"  the  girl  persisted. 
"  Yes  or  no." 

Seeing  that  the  girl  was  not  to  be  put  off,  Jane  Benton 
pulled  a  needle  out  of  her  knitting — for  Thompson  Benton 
wore  knit  socks  to  keep  peace  in  the  family,  since  his  sister 
believed  that  should  he  go  down  town  wearing  a  pair  of 
the  flimsy  kind  he  kept  for  sale,  he  would  return  in  the 
evening  only  to  fall  dead  in  her  arms  —  and  picked  her 
teeth  with  it  while  she  reflected.  And  while  about  it, 
her  manner  softened  so  much  that,  when  she  went  out  of 
the  room  soon  after,  Annie  believed  there  was  a  suspicion 
of  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  remained  away  such  a  length 
of  time  that  the  girl  feared  she  had  really  offended  the 
worthy  woman,  and  was  preparing  to  go  out  and  look  for 
her,  when  she  came  back  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron, 
and  carrying  a  great  packet  of  letters,  which  she  threw 
down  on  the  table  in  front  of  Annie. 

"  There ! "  she  said  pettishly.  "  Since  you  are  so 
curious,  read  them." 

The  girl  was  very  much  amused  at  the  turn  affairs  had 
taken,  and,  after  breaking  the  string  which  held  the  letters 
together,  looked  over  several  of  them.  They  were  dated 
in  the  year  Annie  was  born,  and  one  seemed  to  have  been 
written  on  her  birthday.  They  all  referred  to  her  aunt 


THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN.  173 

in  the  most  loving  and  extravagant  terms  possible ;  and 
while  thinking  how  funny  it  was  that  her  wrinkled  aunt 
should  be  referred  to  as  dear  little  angel,  the  Ancient 
Maiden  said,  — 

"In  love!  I  was  crazy!  And  I  can't  laugh  about  it 
yet,  though  it  seems  to  be  so  amusing  to  you." 

"It  only  amuses  me  because  I  know  now  that  you  are 
like  other  women,"  the  girl  replied  quietly.  "  I  think  more 
of  you  than  ever,  now  that  I  know  you  have  been  in  love." 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  think  a  good  deal  of  me,  then," 
the  Ancient  Maiden  said,  "  for  I  was  so  crazy  after  the 
writer  of  those  letters  that  I  could  n't  sleep.  Love  him ! 
I  thought  he  was  different  from  any  other  man  who  ever 
lived,  and  I  worshipped  him ;  I  made  a  god  of  him,  and 
would  have  followed  him  to  the  end  of  the  earth." 

There  was  more  animation  in  Aunt  Jane's  voice  than 
Annie  had  ever  noticed  before,  and  she  waved  the  knit 
ting  needle  at  her  niece  as  though  she  were  to  blame  for 
getting  her  into  a  love  mess. 

"  He  knew  every  string  leading  to  my  heart,"  the 
excited  maid  continued,  "  and  he  had  more  control  over 
me  than  I  ever  had  over  myself.  It  was  a  fortunate 
thing  that  he  was  an  honorable  man.  Now  you  know  it 
all,  and  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself." 

Miss  Jane  applied  herself  to  knitting  again,, though  she 
missed  a  great  many  stitches  because  of  her  excitement. 

"But  why  didn't  he  marry  you,  since  he  loved  you?" 
Annie  inquired. 

"  Well,  since  you  must  know,  he  found  a  girl  who  suited 
him  better,"  the  Ancient  Maiden  replied.  "  But  before 
that  girl  came  in  the  way,  he  thought  he  loved  me,  and 
I  was  so  well  satisfied  with  his  mistaken  notion  that  I 
worshipped  him.  And  if  his  old  fat  wife  should  die  now, 
I  'd  mnrry  him  were  he  to  ask  me  to.  After  you  have 


174  THE  MYSTEEY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

lived  as  long  as  I  have,  you'll  find  out  that  fickleness  is 
not  such  a  great  fault,  after  all.  Why,  sometimes  it 
bothers  me  to  have  your  father  around,  and  a  man  can  as 
easily  tire  of  his  wife  or  sweetheart  as  that ! " 

She  snapped  her  fingei's  in  such  a  manner  that  it 
sounded  like  the  report  of  a  toy  pistol,  and  the  girl  looked 
at  her  in  surprise. 

"  We  're  all  fickle ;  you  and  I  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
them,"  she  continued.  "Had  the  wives  of  this  country 
pleasant  homes  to  go  back  to;  were  their  fathers  all  rich 
men,  for  example,  who  would  be  glad  to  receive  them, 
half  of  them  —  more  than  that,  two  thirds  of  them  — 
would  leave  their  husbands,  as  they  ought  to  do ;  but  a 
wife  usually  has  no  other  home  than  that  her  husband  has 
made  for  her,  and  she  gets  along  the  best  she  can.  The 
men  are  no  worse  than  the  women ;  we  are  all  fickle, 
fickle,  fickle.  As  sure  as  we  are  all  selfish,  we  are  all 
fickle.  If  I  were  married  to  a  rich  man  who  treated  me 
well,  I  would  be  more  apt  to  love  him  than  one  who  was 
poor,  and  who  treated  me  badly ;  sometimes  we  forget  our 
own  fickleness  in  our  selfishness.  Look  at  the  widowers ; 
how  gay  they  are!  Look  at  the  widows;  how  gay  they 
are !  I  have  known  men  and  women  so  long  that  I  feel 
like  saying  fiddlesticks  when  I  think  of  it." 

"  But  father  is  a  widower,  Aunt  Jane,"  the  girl  said, 
"  and  he  is  not  gay." 

"  Well,  he  had  to  run  away  with  his  wife,  to  get  her," 
the  Ancient  Maiden  replied,  after  some  hesitation.  "  There 
seems  to  be  a  good  deal  in  love,  after  all,  in  cases  where 
people  make  a  sacrifice  for  it.  These  runaway  matches, 
if  the  parties  to  it  are  sensible,  somehow  turn  out  well." 

"Did  father  ever  think  any  less  of  my  mother  because 
she  ran  away  with  him?"  the  girl  asked. 

"  No,"  her  aunt  replied.     "  He  thought  more  of  her  for 


THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN.  175 

it,  I  suppose.  Anyway,  I  never  knew  another  man  to  be 
as  fond  of  his  wife  as  he  was." 

Annie  Benton  and  the  Ancient  Maiden  r.  ursued  their 
work  in  silence  for  a  while,  when  the  girl  said,  — 

"  I  want  to  make  a  confession  to  you,  too,  Aunt  Jane. 
I  am  in  love  with  Allan  Dorris." 

"  Don't  hope  to  surprise  me  by  telling  me  that,"  her 
aunt  returned  quickly,  and  looking  at  the  girl  as  if  in  vex 
ation.  "  I  have  known  it  for  six  months.  But  it  won't 
do  you  any  good,  for  he  is  going  away  on  the  early  train 
to-morrow  morning.  Your  father  told  me  so  this  morn 
ing,  and  he  seemed  glad  of  it.  You  have  n't  kept  your 
secret  from  him,  either." 

To  avoid  showing  her  chagrin  at  this  reply,  the  girl 
walked  over  to  the  window,  and  looked  out.  Allan  Dor 
ris  was  passing  in  the  road,  and  she  felt  sure  that  he  was 
walking  that  way  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her ;  per 
haps  he  was  only  taking  a  farewell  look  at  the  house  in 
which  she  lived.  But  she  did  not  show  herself,  although 
he  watched  the  house  closely  until  he  passed  out  of  sight. 

"  I  supposed  everyone  knew  it,"  the  girl  said,  returning 
to  her  chair  again.  "  I  have  always  thought  that  any  girl 
who  is  desperately  in  love  cannot  hide  it ;  but  I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you  about  it,  and  I  am  glad  you  told  me  what 
you  did,  for  I  can  talk  more  freely  after  having  heard  it. 
I  have  no  one  else  to  make  a  confidant  of,  and  I  am  very 
much  concerned  about  it.  The  matter  is  so  serious  with 
me  that  I  am  scared." 

"  Don't  be  scared,  for  pity's  sake,"  the  Ancient  Maiden 
replied,  with  a  show  of  her  old  spirit.  "They  all  feel 
that  way,  but  they  soon  get  over  it.  When  I  was  in  love 
I  wondered  that  the  sun  came  up  in  the  morning,  but  every 
thing  went  on  just  as  usual.  I  thought  the  people  were 
watching  me  in  alarm,  fearing:  I  would  do  something  dcs- 


176       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

perate,  but  those  who  knew  about  it  paid  little  attention, 
and  I  had  to  get  over  it,  whether  I  wanted  to  or  not. 
You  will  feel  differently  after  he  has  been  gone  a  week." 

"The  certainty  that  I  will  not  is  the  reason  I  have 
spoken  to  you,"  Annie  continued  gravely.  "Allan  Dorris 
loves  me  as  the  writer  of  the  letters  you  have  shown 
me  loved  you  before  the  other  girl  came  in  his  way  ;  and 
I  love  him  as  you  have  loved  the  writer  of  the  letters 
all  these  years.  You  have  never  forgotten  your  lover ; 
then  why  should  you  say  that  I  will  forget  mine  within  a 
week  ?  What  would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Ask  me  anything  but  that,"  the  aunt  replied,  folding 
up  her  work  with  an  unsteady  hand.  "  No  matter  how  I 
should  advise  you,  I  should  finally  come  to  believe  that 
I  had  advised  you  wrong,  love  is  so  uncertain.  It  is  usu 
ally  a  matter  of  impulse,  and  some  of  the  most  unpromis 
ing  lovers  turn  out  the  best.  I  cannot  advise  you,  Annie ; 
I  do  not  know." 

Jane  Benton  imagined  that  Dorris  was  going  away  be 
cause  Annie  would  not  marry  him ;  but  the  reverse  was 
really  the  case,  —  he  was  going  away  for  fear  she  would 
become  his  wife. 

"  My  greatest  fear  is,"  the  girl  continued  again,  "  that 
I  do  not  feel  as  a  woman  should  with  reference  to  it. 
I  would  not  dare  to  tell  you  how  much  concerned  I  am ;  I 
am  almost  afraid  to  admit  it  to  myself.  I  am  thoroughly 
convinced  that  his  going  away  will  blight  my  life,  and  that 
I  shall  always  feel  toward  him  as  I  do  now ;  yet  there  are 
grave  reasons  why  I  should  not  become  his  wife.  Do 
you  think  the  women  are  better  than  the  men  ? " 

The  Ancient  Maiden  leaned  back  in  her  chair  to  think 
about  it,  and  picked  her  teeth  with  the  knitting-needle 
again. 

"  What  is  your  honest  opinion  ?  "  the  girl  insisted. 


THE  ANCIENT   MAIDEN.  177 

"  Sometimes  I  think  they  are,  and  sometimes  I  think 
they  are  not,"  the  aimt  replied,  bending  over  her  work 
again.  "When  I  hear  a  man's  opinion  of  a  woman,  I 
laugh  to  myself,  for  they  know  nothing  of  them.  The 
women  all  seem  to  be  better  than  they  really  are,  and  the 
men  all  seem  to  be  worse  than  they  really  are ;  I  have  often 
thought  that.  Women  have  so  many  little  mean  ways,  in 
their  conduct  toward  one  another,  and  are  so  innocent 
about  it ;  but  when  a  man  is  mean,  he  is  mean  all  over, 
and  perfectly  indifferent  to  what  is  thought  about  him.  A 
lot  of  women  get  together,  and  gabble  away  for  hours 
about  nothing,  but  the  men  are  either  up  to  pronounced 
mischief  or  they  are  at  work." 

"  If  you  were  in  love  with  a  man,  would  you  have  as 
much  confidence  in  his  honesty  as  you  had  in  your  own  ?  " 
the  girl  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  her  aunt  replied  promptly. 

"Then  won't  you  advise  me?  Please  do;  for  I  have 
as  much  confidence  in  Allan  Dorris  as  I  have  in  myself." 

"  If  you  will  see  that  all  the  doors  are  fastened,"  Jane 
Benton  replied  excitedly,  "I  will.  Quick!  Before  I 
change  my  mind." 

The  girl  did  as  she  was  directed,  and  hurried  back  to 
her  aunt's  side. 

"  Since  there  is  no  possibility  of  anyone  hearing,"  Jane 
Benton  continued,  "  I  will  tell  you  the  best  thing  to  do  in 
my  judgment;  but  whatever  comes  of  it,  do  not  hold  me 
responsible.  Think  over  the  matter  carefully,  and  then 
do  whatever  you  yourself  think  best.  No  one  can  advise 
you  like  yourself.  You  are  a  sensible  girl,  and  a  good  girl, 
and  I  would  trust  your  judgment  fully,  and  so  would  your 
father,  though  he  would  hardly  say  so.  There ;  that 's 
enough  on  that  subject.  But  you  can  depend  on  one 
thing :  there  is  a  grand  difference  between  a  lover  and  a 


178       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

husband ;  and  very  few  men  are  as  fond  of  their  wives  as 
they  were  of  their  sweethearts.  All  the  men  do  not  im 
prove  on  acquaintance  like  your  father,  and  I  have  known 
girls  who  were  pretty  and  engaging  one  year  who  were  old 
women  the  next ;  matrimony  has  that  effect  on  most  of 
them,  and  you  should  know  it.  The  women  do  the  best 
they  can,  I  suppose,  but  you  can't  very  well  blame  a  man 
sometimes.  In  1883  he  falls  in  love  with  a  fresh  and  pretty 
girl,  and  marries  her;  in  1884  she  has  lost  her  beauty  and 
her  freshness,  and  although  he  feels  very  meanly  over  it, 
somehow  his  feelings  have  changed  toward  her.  Of  course 
he  loves  her  a  little,  but  he  is  not  the  man  he  was  before 
they  were  married  —  not  a  bit  of  it.  A  good  many  hus 
bands  and  wives  spend  the  first  years  of  their  marriage  in 
thinking  of  the  divorce  courts,  but  after  they  find  out 
that  they  should  have  known  better  than  to  expect  com 
plete  happiness  from  matrimony,  and  that  they  are  not 
different  from  other  people,  they  get  on  better.  Since 
you  have  locked  the  door  to  hear  the  truth,  I  hope  you 
are  satisfied  with  it." 

"But  is  it  necessary  for  girls  to  become  old  so  soon?" 
Annie  inquired. 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  that  it  is,"  her  aunt  replied, 
"  but  the  men  had  better  expect  it ;  and  the  women  had 
better  expect  that  since  there  never  was  yet  an  angel  in 
pants,  there  never  will  be  one.  The  trouble  is,  not  the 
men  and  women,  but  the  false  notions  each  entertain 
toward  the  other.  Now  run  and  open  the  doors,  or  I  '11 
faint." 

Annie  Benton,  after  opening  the  doors  and  watching 
her  aunt  revive,  did  not  seem  at  all  impressed  by  what  she 
had  heard ;  indeed,  she  acted  as  though  she  did  not  believe 
it,  so  the  Ancient  Maiden  gave  her  another  dose. 

"I  imagine  I  have  been  rather   satisfactory  to  your 


THE   ANCIENT   MAIDEN.  179 

father,"  she  said,  "  but  had  I  been  his  wife  I  doubt  if  we 
would  have  got  along  so  well.  A  man  who  is  rather  a 
good  fellow  is  often  very  mean  to  his  wife ;  and  it  seems 
to  be  natural,  too,  for  he  does  not  admit  it  to  himself,  and 
thinks  he  has  justification  for  his  course.  I  don't  know 
what  the  trouble  is,  but  I  know  that  the  most  bitter  ha 
treds  in  the  world  are  those  between  married  people  who 
do  not  get  along.  Since  you  are  so  curious  about  matri 
mony,  I  '11  try  and  give  you  enough  of  it.  Even  a  man 
who  loves  his  wife  will  do  unjust  things  toward  her  which 
he  would  not  do  to  a  sister  he  was  fond  of ;  and  there  is 
something  about  marriage  which  affects  men  and  women 
as  nothing  else  will.  There  are  thousands  of  good  hus 
bands,  but  if  you  could  see  way  down  to  the  bottom  of 
men's  wicked  hearts  not  one  in  ten  would  say  he  was  glad 
he  had  married.  That 's  a  mean  enough  thing  to  say  about 
the  women,  I  hope,  and  if  you  do  not  understand  what 
my  real  preferences  in  your  case  are,  you  must  be  blind." 

Thompson  Benton  came  in  soon  after,  and  they  spent  a 
very  quiet  evening  together.  Annie  retired  to  her  own 
room  eaiiy,  and  when  she  came  to  bid  her  father  good 
night,  tears  started  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  girl  ?  "  he  asked  his  sis 
ter  after  Annie  had  disappeared. 

Jane  Benton  did  not  reply  for  a  long  time,  keeping  her 
eyes  on  the  pages  of  a  book  she  held  in  her  hand,  but  at 
last  she  said,  — 

"  I  don't  know." 

Thompson  Benton  must  have  noticed  that  his  sister  was 
nervous,  and  had  he  followed  her  up  the  stairs  when  she 
retired  for  the  night,  he  must  have  marvelled  that  she 
went  into  Annie's  room,  and  kissed  her  over  and  over,  and 
then  went  hurriedly  away 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  SHOT  AT  THE  SHADOW. 

regular  patronage  of  the  "  Apron  and  Password," 
JL  like  the  attendance  at  a  theatre  when  reported 
by  a  friendly  critic,  was  small,  but  exceedingly  respect 
able. 

A  gentleman  of  uncertain  age  who  answered  to  the  name 
of  Ponsonboy,  and  who  professed  to  be  a  lawyer,  usually 
occupied  the  head  of  the  one  long  table  which  staggered 
on  its  feet  in  the  dingy  dining-room,  and  when  his  place 
was  taken  by  a  stranger,  which  happened  innocently  enough 
occasionally,  Ponsonboy  frowned  so  desperately  that  his 
companions  were  oppressed  with  the  fear  that  they  would 
be  called  upon  to  testify  against  him  in  court  for  vio 
lence. 

The  minister,  who  occupied  the  seat  next  to  Ponsonboy, 
and  who  was  of  uncertain  age  himself,  could  demonstrate 
to  a  certainty  that  the  legal  boarder  was  at  least  forty-five, 
but  the  legal  boarder  nevertheless  had  a  great  deal  to  say 
about  the  necessity  which  seemed  to  exist  for  the  young 
men  to  take  hold,  and  rescue  Davy's  Bend  from  the  reign 
of  "  the  fossils,"  a  term  which  was  applied  to  most  of  the 
citizens  of  the  town  after  the  other  epithets  had  been  ex 
hausted,  and  as  but  few  of  them  knew  what  a  fossil  was, 
they  hoped  it  was  very  bad,  and  used  it  a  great  deal. 

Ponsonboy  was  such  a  particular  man  that  he  could  only 
be  pleased  in  two  ways  —  by  accusing  him  of  an  intention 
to  marry  any  stylish  girl  of  twenty,  or  of  an  intention  to 
180 


A   SHOT  AT   THE   SHADOW.  181 

remove  to  Ben's  City,  which  lie  was  always  threatening 
to  do. 

"  It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  deny  that  I  have  had 
flattering  offers,"  it  was  his  custom  to  reply,  when  asked 
if  there  was  anything  new  with  reference  to  his  contem 
plated  change  of  residence.  "  But  I  am  deuced  timid.  I 
came  here  a  poor  boy,  with  a  law-book  in  one  hand  and 
an  extra  shirt  in  the  other,  and  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
change  until  I  fully  consider  it." 

It  was  a  matter  of  such  grave  importance  that  Pon- 
sonboy  had  already  considered  it  fifteen  years,  and  regularly 
once  a  year  during  that  time  he  had  arranged  to  go, 
making  a  formal  announcement  to  that  effect  to  the  small 
but  select  circle  around  the  table,  the  members  of  which 
either  expressed  their  regrets,  or  agreed  to  be  with  him 
in  a  few  months.  But  always  at  the  last  -moment  Pon- 
sonboy  discovered  that  the  gentleman  who  had  been  making 
the  flattering  offers  wanted  to  put  too  much  responsibility 
on  him,  or  something  of  that  kind,  whereupon  the  good 
lady  on  his  left,  and  the  good  gentleman  on  his  right, 
were  happy  again. 

It  was  true  that  the  legal  boarder  came  to  Davy's  Bend 
a  poor  boy,  if  a  stout  man  of  thirty  without  money  or 
friends  may  be  so  referred  to ;  it  was  also  true  that  he 
was  poor  still,  though  he  was  no  longer  a  boy ;  but  Pon- 
sonboy  rid  himself  of  this  disagreeable  truth,  so  far  as  his 
friends  were  concerned,  by  laying  his  misfortunes  at  the 
door  of  the  town,  as  they  all  did.  He  was  property  poor, 
he  said,  and  values  had  decreased  so  much  of  late  years, 
that  he  was  barely  able  to  pay  his  taxes,  although  he  really 
possessed  nothing  in  the  way  of  property  except  a  tumble 
down  rookery  on  which  there  was  a  mortgage.  But  Pon- 
sonboy,  whose  first  name  was  Albert,  appeared  to  be  quite 
content  with  his  genteel  poverty,  so  long  as  he  succeeded 


182  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

in  creating  an  impression  that  he  would  be  rich  and  dis 
tinguished  but  for  the  wrong  done  him  by  that  miserable 
impostor,  Davy's  Bend. 

The  good  man  on  his  right,  the  Rev.  Walter  Wilton, 
and  pastor  of  the  old  stone  church  where  Annie  Benton 
was  organist,  was  a  bachelor,  like  Ponsonboy ;  but,  like 
Ponsonboy  again,  he  did  not  regard  himself  as  a  bachelor, 
but  as  a  young  man  who  had  not  yet  had  time  to  pick  out 
a  lady  worthy  of  his  affections. 

Close  observers  remarked  that  age  was  breaking  out  on 
good  Mr.  Wilton  in  spots,  like  the  measles  in  its  earlier 
stages ;  short  gray  hairs  peeped  out  at  the  observer  from 
his  face,  and  seemed  to  be  waving  their  arms  to  attract 
attention,  but  he  kept  them  subdued  by  various  arts  so 
long  that  it  was  certain  that  some  time  he  would  become 
old  in  a  night.  He  walked  well  enough,  note,  and  looked 
well  enough ;  but  when  he  forgets  his  pretence  of  youth, 
then  he  will  walk  slowly  down  to  breakfast  some  fine 
morning  with  a  crook  in  his  back  and  a  palsy  in  his  hand. 

When  it  was  said  of  Rev.  Walter  Wilton  that  he  was 
pious,  the  subject  was  exhausted;  there  was  nothing 
more  to  say,  unless  you  chose  to  elaborate  on  piety  in 
general.  He  knew  something  of  books,  and  read  in  them 
a  great  deal,  but  old  Thompson  Benton  was  in  the  habit 
of  saying  that  if  he  ever  had  an  original  idea  in  his  head, 
it  was  before  he  came  to  the  Bend  as  a  mild  menace  to 
those  whose  affairs  did  not  permit  of  so  much  indolent 
deference  to  the  proprieties. 

The  Reverend  Wilton  did  not  gossip  himself,  but  he  in 
duced  others  to,  by  being  quietly  shocked  at  what  they  said, 
and  regularly  three  times  a  day  Ponsonboy  and  his  assist 
ant  on  the  left  laid  a  morsel  before  him,  which  he  inquired 
into  minutely  —  but  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  intended 
to  speak  to  the  erring  parties ;  not  as  a  gossip.  Reverend 


A   SHOT   AT   THE   SHADOW.  183 

Wilton  never  spoke  a  bad  word  against  anyone,  nor  was  he 
ever  known  to  speak  a  good  one,  but  he  always  gave  those 
around  him  to  understand  by  his  critical  indifference  to 
whatever  was  in  hand  that,  were  he  at  liberty  to  desert 
his  post,  and  allow  the  people  to  fall  headlong  into  the 
abyss  out  of  which  he  kept  them  with  the  greatest  diffi 
culty,  he  would  certainly  show  them  how  the  affairs  of 
men  should  be  properly  conducted. 

Too  good  for  this  world,  but  not  good  enough  for  the 
next,  Reverend  Wilton  only  existed,  giving  every  sort  of 
evidence  that,  were  it  not  unclerical,  he  would  swear  at 
his  salary  (which  was  less  than  that  of  a  good  bricklayer), 
denounce  his  congregation  for  good  and  sufficient  reasons, 
cheat  his  boarding-place,  and  hate  his  companions ;  but  his 
trade  being  of  an  amiable  nature,  he  was  a  polite  nothing, 
with  a  great  deal  of  time  on  his  hands  in  which  to  criti 
cise  busy  people,  which  he  did  without  saying  a  word 
against  them. 

Mrs.  Whittle,  the  milliner,  sat  on  Ponsonby's  left ;  a  tall 
and  solidly  built  lady  of  forty-five,  who  was  so  very  good 
as  to  be  disagreeable.  The  people  dreaded  to  see  her  come 
near  them,  for  her  mission  was  certain  to  be  one  of  charity, 
and  Mrs.  Whittle's  heart  was  always  bleeding  for  some 
body.  Summer  and  winter  alike,  she  annoyed  the  people 
by  telling  them  of  "  duties  "  which  were  not  duties  at  all ; 
and  finally  she  was  generally  accepted  as  the  town  nui 
sance,  although  Mrs.  Whittle  herself  believed  that  she  was 
quite  popular  because  of  the  good  she  intended  to  accom 
plish,  but  which  seemed  to  be  impossible  because  of  the 
selfishness  of  the  people.  Thompson  Benton  had  given  it 
out  flat  that  if  she  ever  came  bothering  around  him,  he 
would  give  her  the  real  facts  in  the  case,  instead  of  putting 
his  name  on  her  subscription  paper,  but  for  some  reason 
she  kept  away  from  him,  and  never  heard  the  real  facts, 


184  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

whatever  they  were.  She  regarded  old  Thompson,  how 
ever,  as  a  mean  man,  and  moaned  about  him  a  great  deal, 
which  he  cither  never  heard  of  or  cared  nothinor  about. 

O 

Old  Thompson  was  seldom  seen  at  church  on  Sunday- 
evening,  therefore  Mrs.  Whittle  felt  quite  sure  that  he  was 
prowling  around  with  a  view  of  safe-blowing,  or  something 
of  that  kind,  and  she  never  referred  to  him  except  to  in 
timate  that  he  was  up  to  mischief  of  the  most  pronounced 
sort.  A  man  who  was  not  at  church  on  Sunday  evening, 
in  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Whittle,  must  be  drunk  in  a  saloon, 
or  robbing  somebody,  for  where  else  could  he  be  ?  Mrs. 
Whittle  only  recognized  two  classes  of  men  ;  those  who 
were  in  the  churches,  and  those  who  were  in  the  saloons ; 
and  in  her  head,  which  was  entirely  too  small  for  the  size 
of  her  body,  there  was  no  suspicion  of  a  middle  ground. 
Those  who  craved  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Whittle  found  it 
necessary  to  be  conspicuous  either  as  a  saint  or  a  sinner. 

Theoretically  Mrs.  Whittle  was  a  splendid  woman,  and 
certainly  a  bad  woman  in  no  particular  except  that  she 
carried  her  virtues  to  such  an  extent  that  the  people  dis 
liked  her,  and  felt  ashamed  of  themselves  for  it,  not  feel 
ing  quite  certain  that  they  had  a  right  to  find  fault  with 
one  who  neglected  not  only  her  affairs,  but  her  person,  to 
teach  others  neatness,  and  thrift,  and  the  virtues  gen 
erally. 

If  she  accomplished  no  good,  as  old  Thompson  Benton 
stoutly  asserted,  it  was  certain  she  did  some  harm,  for  the 
people  finally  came  to  neglect  affairs  in  which  they  would 
otherwise  have  taken  a  moderate  interest  because  of 
their  dislike  of  Mrs.  Whittle.  A  great  many  others  who 
were  inclined  to  attend  to  their  .own  affairs  (which  are 
always  sufficient  to  occupy  one's  time,  heaven  knows) 
were  badgered  to  such  an  extent  by  Mrs.  Whittle  that 
they  joined  her  in  various  enterprises  that  resulted  in 


A   SHOT  AT  THE   SHADOW.  185 

nothing  but  to  make  their  good  intentions  ridiculous,  and 
finally  there  was  a  general  and  a  sincere  hope  that  blunt 
Thompson  Benton  would  find  opportunity  to  come  to  the 
rescue  of  the  people. 

Three  times  a  day  this  trio  met,  and  three  times  each 
day  it  was  satisfied  with  itself,  and  dissatisfied  with  Davy's 
Bend,  as  well  as  everything  in  it,  including  Allan  Dorris. 
The  new  occupant  of  The  Locks  was  generally  popular 
with  the  people,  but  the  hotel  trio  made  the  absurd  mis 
take  of  supposing  that  they  were  the  people,  therefore 
they  talked  of  Dorris  as  though  he  were  generally  hated 
and  despised.  They  were  indignant,  to  begin  with,  be 
cause  he  did  not  covet  the  acquaintance  of  the  only  circle 
in  the  town  worth  cultivating,  and  as  time  wore  on,  and 
he  still  made  no  effort  to  know  them,  they  could  come  to 
only  one  conclusion ;  that  he  was  deserving  of  their  se 
verest  denunciation. 

Could  Thompson  Benton  have  known  of  the  pious  con 
clusions  to  which  they  came  concerning  his  child,  and 
which  she  no  more  deserved  than  hundreds  of  other 
worthy  women  deserve  the  gossip  to  which  they  arc  always 
subjected,  he  would  have  walked  in  upon  them,  and  given 
the  two  men  broken  heads,  and  the  woman  the  real  facts 
in  her  case  which  he  had  been  promising ;  but  there  is  a 
destiny  Avhich  protects  us  from  an  evil  which  is  as  com 
mon  as  sunshine,  and  Thompson  Benton  was  not  an  ex 
ception  to  the  rule. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  hotel  trio  to  come  late  to  sup 
per  and  remain  late,  greatly  to  the  disgust  of  the  cook  and 
the  man-of-all-work,  and,  surrounding  the  table  in  easy 
positions,  they  gossipped  to  their  heart's  content,  at  last 
wandering  away  to  their  respective  homes,  very  well 
satisfied  with  one  another,  if  with  nothing  else. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  they  got  away  on  the 


186  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

eveuing  with  which  we  have  to  do,  and  by  the  time  Davy 
had  eaten  his  own  sapper  and  put  the  room  in  order  for 
the  morning,  it  was  ten.  Hurriedly  putting  up  a  package 
of  whatever  was  at  hand  for  Tug,  he  was  about  starting 
out  at  the  kitchen  door  when  he  met  Mr.  Whittle  on  the 
steps.  He  had  somehow  come  into  possession  of  a  long 
and  wicked-looking  musket,  which  he  brought  in  with  him, 
and  put  down  near  the  door  connecting  the  kitchen  with 
the  dining-room.  Seeing  Davy's  look  of  surprise,  he 
seated  himself  in  Ponsonboy's  place,  and  explained. 

"  Poison  has  its  advantages,  for  it  does  not  bark  when 
it  bites,  but  it  lacks  range,  and  henceforth  I  carry  a  gun. 
How  was  Uncle  Albert  to-night  ?  " 

Silas  placed  a  plate  of  cold  meat  before  his  friend,  and 
replied  that  Mr.  Ponsonboy  would  be  in  a  fine  rage  if  he 
should  hear  himself  referred  to  as  Uncle  Albert. 

"  Oh,  would  he  ?  "  Tug  inquired,  sighting  at  his  com 
panion  precisely  as  he  might  have  sighted  along  the  barrel 
of  his  musket.  "That  man  is  fifty  years  old  if  he  is  a 
day,  and  don't  let  him  attempt  any  of  his  giddy  tricks 
with  me.  I  would  n't  stand  it ;  I  know  too  much  about 
him.  I  have  known  Uncle  Albert  ever  since  he  was  old 
enough  to  marry,  and  I  know  enough  to  hang  him,  the 
old  kicker.  I've  known  him  to  abuse  the  postmaster 
for  not  giving  him  a  letter  with  money  in  it,  although  he 
did  n't  expect  one,  and  accuse  him  of  stealing  it,  and 
whenever  he  spells  a  word  wrong,  and  gets  caught  at  it, 
he  goes  around  telling  that  he  has  found  a  typograph 
ical  error  in  the  dictionary.  What  did  he  say  about  me 
to-night  ?  " 

"  He  said  —  I  hope  you  won't  believe  that  I  think  so," 
—  Davy  apologized  in  advance — "that  you  robbed  the 
only  client  you  ever  had  of  a  thousand  dollars." 

"  Did  he,  though  ?"  Tug  impudently  inquired.    "Well, 


A   SHOT   AT   THE  SHADOW.  187 

I  '11  give  him  half  if  he  '11  pi-ove  it,  for  I  need  the  money. 
Uncle  Albert  hears  what  is  said  about  me,  and  I  hear 
what  is  said  about  him.  If  he'll  make  a  date  with  me, 
I  '11  exchange  stories  with  him ;  and  he  won't  have  any 
of  the  best  of  it,  either.  The  people  sometimes  talk 
about  as  good  a  man  as  I  am,  and  even  were  I  without 
faults,  there  are  plenty  of  liars  to  invent  stories,  so  you 
can  imagine  that  they  give  it  to  Uncle  Albert  tolerable 
lively." 

Tug  did  not  mingle  with  the  people  a  great  deal,  but 
he  knew  about  what  they  were  saying,  and  when  talking 
to  Silas  he  did  not  hesitate  to  quote  them  to  substantiate 
any  position  he  saw  fit  to  take.  He  had  a  habit  of  put 
ting  on  his  hat  on  these  occasions,  and  inviting  Silas  to 
accompany  him  out  in  the  town  to  see  the  principal 
people,. in  order  that  they  might  own  to  what  Tug  had 
credited  them  with  saying.  But  Silas  always  refused  to 
go,  not  doubting  that  his  friend's  inventions  were  true, 
so  it  happened  that  Tug  made  out  rather  strong  cases 
against  his  enemies. 

"I  can  stand  up  with  the  most  of  them,"  he  said,  with 
an  ill  humor  to  which  hunger  lent  a  zest ;  "  and  them  that 
beat  me,  I  can  disgrace  with  their  poor  relations.  Show 
me  the  man  that  can't  be  beat  if  you  go  at  him  right,  and 
you  may  hang  me  with  a  thread.  Them  that  are  well- 
behaved  have  shiftless  relations,  and  I  '11  get  them  drunk, 
and  cause  them  to  hurrah  for  '  Uncle  Bill,'  or  '  Aunt  Sa- 
mantha,'  or  whoever  it  may  be,  in  front  of  their  fine 
houses.  I  pride  myself  on  my  meanness,  and  I  '11  not  be 
tromped  on.  Let  him  that  is  without  sin  cast  the  first 
stone,  and  I  '11  not  be  stoned.  You  can  bet  on  that,  if  you 
want  to." 

Tug  proceeded  with  his  meal  in  silence  until  Silas  said 
to  him  that  Reverend  Wilton  was  a  good  man.  Silas  had  a 


188  THE  MYSTERY   OF   THE  LOCKS. 

habit  of  inducing  Tug  to  abuse  his  enemies  by  praising 
them,  and  the  ruse  never  failed. 

"  Well,  don't  he  get  paid  for  being  good  ?  "  Tug  replied, 
waving  a  kitchen  fork  in  the  air  like  a  dagger.  "Ain't  that 
his  business  '(  It 's  no  more  to  his  credit  to  say  that  he  is 
good,  than  to  say  that  Silas  Davy  is  a  hotel  Handy  Andy. 
If  you  say  that  he  knows  a  good  deal  about  books,  I  will 
say,  so  does  Hearty  Hampton  know  a  good  deal  about  mend 
ing  shoes,  for  it 's  his  trade.  Shut  Hearty  up  in  a  room, 
and  pay  him  to  post  himself  regarding  certain  old  charac 
ters  he  cares  nothing  about,  and  pay  him  well,  and  in  the 
course  of  years  he  will  be  able  to  speak  of  people,  events, 
and  words  which  you,  having  been  busy  all  the  time,  will 
know  nothing  about.  He  ought  to  be  good ;  it 's  his  busi 
ness.  I  always  know  what  a  preacher  is  going  to  say  when 
he  opens  his  mouth,  for  don't  I  know  what  he 's  hired  to 
say?  I  don't  like  good  men,  any  way,  but  a  man  who  is 
paid  to  be  good,  and  expects  me  to  admire  him  for  it, 
will  find  —  well,  I'll  not  do  it,  that's  all.  How's  the 
old  lady?" 

There  was  a  faint  evidence  that  Tug  was  about  to  laugh 
at  the  thought  of  his  divorced  wife,  and  his  cheeks  puffed 
out  as  a  preliminary,  but  he  changed  his  mind  at  the  last 
moment,  and  carefully  sighted  at  Silas,  as  if  intending  to 
wing  his  reply,  like  a  bird  from  a  trap. 

"  She  is  uncommonly  well,  for  her,"  Silas  said,  looking 
meekly  at  his  companion.  "  She  is  almost  gay." 

"  Oh,  the  young  thing ;  is  she,"  Tug  retoi'ted.  "  Do 
you  know  what  she  reminds  me  of?  An  old  man  in  a 
dress  trying  to  imitate  a  girl." 

There  was  unutterable  meanness  in  Mr.  Whittle's  last 
remark,  and  when  he  looked  around  the  room  with  fierce 
dignity,  he  seemed  to  be  Avondering  why  any  one  should 
continue  to  live  in  the  face  of  his  displeasure. 


A   SHOT  AT  THE  SHADOW.  189 

"  I  heard  her  say  to-night,  when  I  brought  in  a  third  lot 
of  cakes,  that  you  were  the  bane  of  her  life,"  Silas  said, 
timidly,  and  dodging  his  head  to  one  side,  as  if  expecting 
Tug  Whittle  to  jump  at  him  for  repeating  the  scandalous 
story.  "  Although  she  says  she  is  heart-broken,  I  notice 
she  eats  mighty  well ;  for  her." 

"And  I  suppose  Reverend  Good  and  Uncle  Alfred 
encouraged  her,"  Tug  replied.  "What  good  husbands 
bachelors  imagine  they  would  be,  and  what  miserable  old 
growlers  they  turn  out.  Before  a  man  is  married  he 
takes  a  great  deal  of  comfort  to  himself  in  thinking  what 
a  kind,  indulgent  husband  and  father  he  would  be,  and 
how  different  from  other  men,  but  they  soon  fall  with  a 
dull  sickening  thud  to  the  level  of  the  rest  of  us.  It's 
easy  enough  to  be  a  good  husband  in  theory,  and  it 's  easy 
enough  to  be  brave  in  theory,  but  when  the  theorists 
come  down  to  actual  business,  they  are  like  the  rest  of  us. 
It 's  like  an  actor  in  a  show.  He  wants  to  find  a  villain, 
and  punish  him,  and  the  villain  appears  about  that  time, 
and  makes  no  resistance,  and  is  beaten  to  great  applause, 
finally  shrinking  away  while  the  other  fellow  looks  fero 
ciously  at  him,  but  it  is  not  that  way  in  real  life.  The 
villain  fights  in  real  life,  and  usually  whips.  If  I  knew 
that  the  men  I  dislike  would  stand  it  peaceable,  like  the 
villains  in  a  show,  I  'd  beat  'm  all  to  death ;  but  as  it  is,  I 
am  a  coward,  like  Ponsonboy,  and  you,  and  Armsby,  and 
all  the  rest  of  them  ;  except  Allan  Dorris —  there's  a  man 
who  'd  fight.  When  I  read  in  books  about  brave  men,  it 
makes  me  feel  ashamed,  until  I  remember  that  the. men  in 
actual  life  are  not  like  those  in  the  books.  What  did  Her 
Ladyship  say  about  Hector  ?  " 

Mrs.  Whittle's  first  husband  had  been  a  certain  Hector 
Harlam,  with  whose  history  Silas  was  very  familiar  from 
his  association  with  Tug,  so  he  answered, — 


190  THE  MYSTERY   OP  THE  LOCKS. 

"  She  wiped  away  a  tear,  and  regretted  his  death.  She 
seemed  greatly  affected,  —  for  her." 

"  She  can't  possibly  regret  his  death  more  than  I  do," 
Tug  said.  "  He  appreciated  her ;  I  never  did,  and  I  am 
sorry  she  does  not  join  Hector  in  glory,  or  wherever  he 
is,  for  she  is  no  earthly  good  in  Davy's  Bend.  She  told 
me  once  that  he  always  called  her  his  baby." 

There  was  no  keeping  it  in  now  ;  the  thought  of  his  wife 
being  called  a  "baby"  was  so  absurd  to  Tug  that  he  was 
about  to  laugh.  His  cheeks  swelled  out  as  though  the 
laugh  came  up  from  below  somewhere,  and  he  found  it 
necessary  to  swallow  it,  after  which  there  was  a  faint 
smile  on  his  face,  and  a  gurgle  in  his  throat.  When  Mr. 
Whittle  smiled,  it  was  such  an  unusual  proceeding  that 
his  scalp  had  a  habit  of  crawling  over  towards  his  face,  to 
take  a  look,  which  it  did  in  this  instance,  and  then  went 
back  to  its  old  position  at  the  top  of  his  head.  It  was  a 
dreadful  laugh,  but  Silas  was  used  to  it,  and  was  not 
alarmed. 

"  That  woman  wants  to  be  a  man  the  worst  way,"  the 
old  scoundrel  went  on  to  say.  "  I  hope  it  accounts  for  the 
circumstance  that  she  never  looks  like  a  woman  should. 
A  white  dress  on  a  woman  —  a  real  woman,  understand  ; 
not  an  imitation  one  —  looks  handsome ;  and  I  never  see  a 
girl  dressed  in  white  that  I  do  not  fall  in  love  with  her, 
but  when  the  old  lady  puts  it  on,  with  a  frill  at  her  neck, 
or  any  such  trifling  thing,  I  want  to  find  a  woodpile  and 
an  axe  to  cut  off  my  feet.  I  don't  know  why  anyone 
should  want  to  be  a  man  ;  I  know  what  a  man  is,  and  I 
wonder  at  this  strange  ambition  of  the  old  lady.  I  never 
see  a  man  that  I  don't  want  to  spit  on  him.  Ugh ! " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  unutterable  disgust,  but 
soon  modified  his  manner,  as  Davy  began  talking  of  another 
matter. 


A   SHOT  AT   THE   SHADOW.  191 

"  Barney  Russell,  of  Ben's  City,  was  here  to-day,"  the 
little  man  said.  "He  used  to  live  iu  Davy's  Bend;  I 
suppose  you  remember  him." 

"  There 's  another  feller  I  don't  like,"  Mr.  Whittle  re 
plied,  with  a  snort.  "  He  comes  up  here  regularly  once  a 
month  to  crow  over  us,  and  tell  around  that  he  has  two 
overcoats  ;  one  for  winter,  and  another  for  spring.  Some 
say  he  has  seven  canes,  a  different  one  for  every  day  in 
the  week  ;  but  he  ain't  half  the  man  Dorris  is,  although  he 
carries  silk  handkerchiefs  with  a  red  '  R '  in  the  corner.  If 
I  should  leave  Davy's  Bend,  I  'd  never  come  back,  as  he 
does ;  for  I  have  done  so  many  contemptible  things  here 
that  I  would  n't  want  to  be  reminded  of  them  by  seeing 
the  place  again.  I  don't  blame  Barney,  though,  for  hav 
ing  two  overcoats,"  Tug  continued  thoughtfully.  "  Next 
to  two  pairs  of  shoes,  it 's  the  greatest  luxury  a  rich  man 
can  afford  —  I  'd  own  two  overcoats  myself  if  I  had  the 
money.  A  man  who  has  two  overcoats  and  two  pairs  of 
shoes,  and  uses  a  knife  to  cut  his  tobacco,  instead  of  biting 
it  off  like  a  pig,  is  ready  to  die ;  there  will  be  little  left  in 
the  world  for  him  to  regret  after  he 's  gone,  — but  to  return 
to  the  serious  business  of  life :  it  is  usually  on  a  Wednes 
day  when  the  shadow  appears.  This  is  his  night,  and  I  'm 
looking  for  him." 

He  turned  his  big  eye  toward  the  corner  where  he  had 
left  the  musket,  and,  seeing  it  was  safe,  resumed,  — 

"  I  have  never  been  of  any  use  to  a  single  human  being 
in  all  my  life,  but  I  intend  to  make  myself  useful  to  Allan 
Dorris  by  shooting  the  shadow.  Give  me  that  gun." 

Silas  went  over  to  where  the  gun  was  standing,  and  re 
turned  with  it  in  his  hand.  Placing  his  finger  about  half 
way  up  the  barrel,  and  following  it  with  his  great  eye,  Tug 
said,  — 

"  It  is  loaded  to  there.     Thompson  Benton  trusted  me 


192       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

for  the  ammunition,  though  he  said  he  knew  he  would 
never  get  the  money.  I  have  a  notion  to  pay  him  now, 
for  contrariness.  Have  you  fifty  cents  about  you  ?  " 

Silas  carefully  went  through  his  pockets,  as  if  he  were 
not  quite  sure  about  it,  but  after  a  long  examination  re 
plied  that  he  had  n't  a  cent. 

"  Well,  it 's  no  great  matter,  though  you  ought  to  keep 
money  about  you;  I  am  liable  to  need  it.  But,  if  let 
alone  by  the  shadow,  Allan  Dorris  will  marry  Annie  Ben- 
ton,  and  become  a  happy  man,  which  he  has  never  been 
before.  I  don't  know  what  he  has  been  up  to  before  he 
came  here,  and  I  don't  care,  for  I  like  him,  and  I  am  go 
ing  out  now  to  get  a  shot  at  his  enemy." 

Without  further  words  he  walked  out,  followed  by 
Silas,  who  carefully  locked  the  kitchen  door  and  put  the 
key  in  his  pocket.  Viewed  at  a  distance,  the  pair  looked 
like  a  man  and  a  boy  out  hunting ;  the  boy  lagging  behind 
to  carry  the  game. 

It  was  a  bad  night,  for  which  the  Bend  was  famous, 
and  though  it  was  not  raining,  there  was  so  much  moisture 
in  the  air  from  a  recent  rain,  that  it  occurred  to  Silas,  as  he 
went  limping  along  towards  The  Locks,  for  they  walked 
in  that  direction,  that  if  Tug  should  find  the  shadow,  and 
fire  his  gun  at  it,  the  discharge  would  precipitate  another 
shower;  for  the  prop  under  the  water  in  the  sky  seemed 
to  be  very  unsubstantial  and  shaky  that  night. 

It  had  been  raining  at  intervals  all  day,  and  the  two 
men  floundered  along  in  the  mud  until  they  reached  the 
church  which  stood  near  Allan  Dorris's  house,  where  Tug 
stopped  awhile  to  consider.  Coming  to  a  conclusion  after 
some  deliberation,  he  pulled  two  long  boards  up  from  the 
church  steps,  and,  giving  the  gun  to  Silas  to  hold,  he 
carried  them  to  the  middle  gable  of  the  building,  on  the 
side  looking  towards  The  Locks.  Climbing  up  on  the 


A  SHOT  AT  THE   SHADOW.  193 

window-sill,  he  placed  one  end  of  each  board  on  the  wall 
which  surrounded  The  Locks,  and  which  was  only  a  few 
feet  from  the  church,  and  the  other  on  the  window-sash, 
pulling  the  upper  one  down  to  aid  the  lower  one  in  hold 
ing  his  weight,  and  allowing  one  end  of  each  board  to 
protrude  into  the  chui-ch.  Then  climbing  up,  and  strad 
dling  one  "of  the  boards,  he  took  his  gun,  and  motioned 
his  companion  to  follow. 

When  Davy  seated  himself  by  the  side  of  his  friend,  he 
found  that  the  low  gable  would  protect  them  from  the 
rain,  should  it  come  on,  and  that  from  where  they  sat  they 
commanded  a  view  of  Dorris's  window ;  the  one  above  the 
porch  where  they  had  once  seen  the  shadow  appear,  and  in 
which  a  light  now  appeared.  Silas  felt  certain  that  it  was 
Tug's  intention  to  wait  there  all  night  for  a  shot,  and  he 
made  himself  as  comfortable  as  possible. 

Occasionally  he  fell  into  a  light  doze,  but  on  coming 
out  of  it,  by  losing  his  balance,  he  saw  that  Tug  was  still 
intently  watching  the  window,  with  the  musket  in  his 
hands  ready  for  use. 

Two  hours  passed  in  this  manner,  when  the  patience  of 
Silas  was  rewarded  by  seeing  Tug  crane  his  neck,  and 
look  intently  through  the  trees.  Silas  looked  himself, 
and  saw  a  man's  head  slowly  rising  to  the  porch  roof  from 
below.  It  came  up  in  full  view,  and  then  a  part  of  the 
body  was  seen  as  the  shadow  climbed  over  the  low  railing. 
As  near  as  Silas  could  make  out,  the  man  wormed  himself 
around,  and  finally  stood  upon  the  porch  railing  to  look 
in  at  the  top  of  the  window ;  so  that  only  a  part  of  his 
head  and  none  of  his  body  could  be  seen  from  where  the 
men  were. 

Although  he  heard  Tug  cock  the  gun  when  the  head 
first  appeared,  he  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  a  larger  mark 
to  shoot  at ;  for  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  except  a 


194  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

part  of  a  hat.  Occasionally  this  would  be  withdrawn,  but 
it  would  soon  appear  again,  and  remain  motionless  a  long 
time,  as  though  the  wearer  was  intently  gazing  at  some 
thing  transpiring  in  the  room  which  greatly  interested 
him.  Tug  did  not  seem  at  all  excited,  as  Silas  was,  but 
sat  watching  the  shadow,  as  motionless  as  a  stone. 

After  a  longer  disappearance  than  usual,  during  which 
time  Tug  became  very  nervous,  the  hat  came  in  view 
again,  and  Silas  said  softly, — 

"  Suppose  it  should  disappear,  and  never  come  back  ?  " 

Apparently  Tug  had  not  thought  of  this  possibility,  for 
he  hurriedly  threw  the  gun  to  his  shoulder,  aimed  a 
moment,  and  fired.  The  report  was  tremendous,  and 
seemed  to  frighten  Tug  himself;  for  he  hurriedly  jumped 
down,  and  softly  raised  the  sash  into  position,  replaced 
the  boards  on  the  steps,  and  set  out  toward  the  town. 
Reaching  the  vicinity  of  the  hotel,  he  waited  until  Silas 
came  up,  and  said,  — 

"Sleep  in  your  own  bed  to-night;  we  must  not  be 
found  together." 

So  saying  he  disappeared,  and  Silas  crept  to  his  lonely 
room  to  wonder  what  Allan  Dorris  would  find  when  he 
went  out  to  investigate  the  shooting. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  STEP  ON  THE  STAIR. 

had  been  two  days  of  rain  already,  and  Allan 
-L  Dorris  sat  in  his  lonely  room  at  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
listening  to  its  ceaseless  patter  at  the  windows,  and  on 
the  roof,  and  its  dripping  from  the  eaves,  thinking  that 
when  the  sun  came  out  again  he  would  go  away  and  leave 
it,  and  remove  to  a  place  which  would  always  be  in  the 
shadow.  Davy's  Bend  was  noted  for  its  murky  weather, 
and  the  nights  were  surely  darker  there  than  elsewhere ;  but 
he  felt  that  after  his  departure  he  would  think  of  the  sun 
as  always  shining  brightly  around  The  Locks,  and  through 
the  dirty  town,  even  lighting  up  the  dark  woods  across 
the  river,  which  seemed  to  collect  a  little  more  darkness 
every  night  than  the  succeeding  day  could  drive  out ;  for 
Annie  Benton  would  remain,  and  surely  the  sun  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  smile  upon  her  pretty  face. 

Davy's  Bend,  with  all  its  faults,  would  always  remain  a 
pleasant  memory  with  Allan  Dorris,  and  he  envied  those 
who  were  to  remain,  for  they  might  hope  to  see  Annie 
Benton  occasionally  pass  on  her  way  to  church,  and  be 
better  for  it. 

He  loved  Annie  Benton  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
would  rather  be  thousands  of  miles  away  from  her  than 
within  sight  of  the  house  in  which  she  lived,  since  he  had 
sworn  not  to  ask  her  to  share  his  life ;  and  the  next  morn 
ing  before  daylight  he  intended  to  go  to  some  far-away 
place,  —  he  did  not  know  where,  —  and  get  rid  of  the 

195 


196       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

dark  nights,  and  the  rain,  and  the  step  on  the  stair,  and 
the  organ,  and  the  player  who  had  exerted  such  an  influ 
ence  over  him. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  sell  The  Locks  at  the  price  he 
paid,  although  the  people  had  been  grumbling  because  they 
were  not  offered  the  bargain  originally;  so  he  intended  to 
turn  it  over  to  Mrs.  "Wedge,  and  poor  Helen,  and  the  noises 
and  spectres  which  were  always  protesting  against  his  liv 
ing  there  at  all,  and  become  a  wanderer  over  the  face  of 
the  earth.  Perhaps  his  lonely  life  of  a  year  in  The  Locks 
would  cause  another  ghost  to  take  up  its  residence  in 
the  place,  and  join  poor  Helen  in  moaning  and  walking 
through  the  rooms. 

Mrs.  Wedge  had  disappeared  an  hour  before,  her  eyes 
red  from  weeping,  but  she  was  coming  back  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  at  which  time  Dorris  intended  to 
leave  for  the  railroad  station ;  so  Dorris  settled  himself 
in  his  chair  to  wait  until  the  hour  for  his  departure 
arrived. 

How  distinct  the  step  on  the  stair  to-night !  A  hun 
dred  times  it  had  passed  up  and  down  since  Allan  Dorris 
sat  down  a  few  hours  before ;  and  the  dripping  rain  at 
the  windows  made  him  think  of  sitting  up  with  a  body 
packed  in  ice.  Drip ;  drip ;  drip ;  and  the  ghostly  step 
so  distinct  that  he  thought  the  body  he  was  watching 
must  have  tired  of  lying  in  one  position  so  long,  and  was 
walking  about  for  exercise. 

The  light  burned  low  under  its  shade,  and  the  other 
side  of  the  room  was  in  deep  shadow.  He  thought  of  it 
as  a  map  of  his  life ;  for  it  was  entirely  dark  and  blank, 
except  the  one  ray  in  the  corner,  which  represented  Davy's 
Bend  and  Annie  Benton.  Yet  he  had  determined  to  go 
back  into  the  shadow  again,  and  leave  the  light  forever ; 
to  exist  once  more  in  toil  and  discontent,  hoping  to  tire 


THE   STEP   ON   THE   STAIR.  197 

himself  by  excitement  and  exertion  into  forgetfulness,  and 
sleep,  and  death. 

Death!  Is  it  so  dreadful,  after  all?  Dorris  argued 
the  question  with  himself,  and  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  if  it  meant  rest  and  forgetfulness  he  would  welcome 
it.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  hope  in  his  life,  but 
he  was  convinced  now  that  he  was  foolish  for  entertain 
ing  it  at  all,  since  nothing  ever  came  of  it.  Perhaps  his 
experience  had  been  that  of  other  men  ;  he  gave  up  one 
hope  only  to  entertain  another,  but  experience  had  taught 
him  that  hope  was  nothing  more  than  a  solace  for  a 
wretched  race.  The  old  hope  that  they  will  be  better  to 
morrow,  when  they  will  get  on  with  less  difficulty  and 
weary  labor ;  but  to-morrow  they  die,  and  their  children 
hope  after  them,  and  are  disappointed,  and  hope  again. 

Should  Death  open  the  door,  and  walk  in  to  claim  him, 
Dorris  believed  he  would  be  ready,  since  there  was  noth 
ing  in  the  future  for  him  more  pleasant  than  the  past  had 
offered.  He  did  not  believe  he  was  a  morbid  man,  or 
one  given  to  exaggerating  the  distress  of  his  own  condi 
tion,  but  he  would  give  up  life  as  he  might  give  up  any 
thing  else  which  was  not  satisfactory,  and  which  gave  no 
promise  of  improvement. 

How  distinctly  the  step  is  climbing  the  stair !  He  had 
never  heard  it  so  plainly  before,  but  the  faltering  and 
hesitation  were  painfully  natural ;  he  had  heard  it  almost 
every  night  since  coming  to  the  house,  but  there  was  a 
distinctness  now  which  he  had  never  remarked  before.  A 
long  pause  on  the  landing ;  poor  Helen  dreading  to  go  into 
the  baby's  room,  he  thought,  whither  she  was  drawn  so 
often  from  her  grave.  But  it  advanced  to  the  door  of  the 
room  in  which  Dorris  sat,  and  stopped  again ;  he  drew  his 
breath  in  gasps  —  perhaps  it  was  coming  in ! 

A  timid  knock  at  the  door ! 


198  THE  MYSTERY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

The  face  of  the  listener  turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  he 
trembled  violently  when  he  stood  upon  his  feet.  Should  he 
open  the  door  or  lock  it !  Going  up  to  the  fire,  he  stirred 
the  smouldering  coals  until  there  was  a  flood  of  light  in 
the  room,  and  turned  up  the  lamp  to  increase  the  illumi 
nation.  Still  he  hesitated.  Suppose  he  should  open  the 
door,  and  find  poor  Helen  standing  there  in  her  grave- 
clothes  !  Suppose  she  should  drop  on  her  knees,  and  ask 
for  her  child,  holding  out  her  fleshless  fingers  to  him 
in  supplication,  and  stare  at  him  with  her  sightless 
sockets  ? 

After  hesitating  a  long  time,  he  went  to  the  door  and 
threw  it  wide  open,  at  the  same  time  springing  back  from 
it  in  quick  alarm. 

Annie  Benton ! 

He  had  firmly  expected  to  see  the  ghost  of  poor  Helen ; 
instead  he  saw  a  fresh  and  beautiful  girl,  but  so  excited 
that  she  could  scarcely  speak.  There  was  a  look  of 
reckless  determination  in  her  face  which  made  Allan  Dor- 
ris  fear  for  the  moment  that  she  had  gone  mad,  and, 
strolling  about  the  town,  had  concluded,  in  her  wild  fancy, 
to  murder  him  for  some  imagined  wrong. 

"  How  you  frightened  me ! "  he  said,  coming  close  to 
her.  "  Just  before  you  rapped,  the  ghost  of  poor  Helen 
had  been  running  up  and  down  the  stair,  as  if  celebrating 
my  resolution  to  leave  The  Locks,  and  give  it  over  to  her 
for  night  walking.  You  have  been  out  in  the  storm,  and 
are  Avet  and  cold.  Come  in  to  the  fire." 

The  girl  crossed  the  threshold,  and  entered  the  room, 
but  did  riot  go  near  the  fire.  She  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
induce  her  hot  brain  to  explain  her  presence  there,  for 
she  tui'ned  her  back  to  him,  as  if  in  embarrassment. 

"  I  can  no  longer  control  myself,"  Annie  Benton  said, 
facing  Dorris  with  quivering  lips,  "  and  I  have  come  to 


THE   STEP   ON  THE   STAIE.  199 

give  myself  to  you,  body  and  soul.  I  am  lost  to  restraint 
and  reason,  and  I  place  myself  in  the  hands  of  him  who 
has  brought  this  about,  for  I  am  no  longer  capable  of  tak 
ing  care  of  myself.  Do  what  you  please  with  me ;  I  love 
you  so  much  that  I  will  be  satisfied,  though  disgrace  comes 
of  it.  I  will  never  leave  you  again,  and  if  you  go  away, 
I  will  go  with  you.  I  have  loved  you  against  my  reason 
ever  since  I  knew  you,  for  you  always  told  me  I  must 
not,  and  I  restrained  myself  as  best  I  could.  But  I  can 
not  permit  you  to  go  away  unless  you  take  me  with  you. 
O,  Allan,  promise  me  that  you  will  not  go  away,"  she 
said,  falling  on  her  knees  before  him.  "Do  this,  and  I 
will  return  home,  to  regret  this  rashness  foreArer.  If  you 
do  not,  I  will  remain,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they 
may." 

Dorris  looked  at  the  girl  in  wonder  and  pity,  for  there 
was  touching  evidence  in  her  last  words  that  she  was 
greatly  distressed ;  but  he  could  only  say,  "  Annie !  what 
are  you  doing !  " 

"  You  have  taught  me  such  lessons  in  love  that  I  have 
gone  mad  in  studying  them,"  she  continued,  standing  be 
side  him  again,  "  and  there  is  nothing  in  this  world,  or 
the  world  to  come,  that  I  would  not  give  to  possess  you. 
I  relinquish  my  father,  and  my  home,  and  my  hope  of 
heaven,  that  I  may  be  with  you,  if  these  sacrifices  are 
necessary  to  pacify  my  rebellion.  If  you  have  been  play 
ing  upon  my  feelings  during  our  acquaintance,  and  were 
not  sincere,  you  have  captured  me  so  completely  that  I 
am  your  slave.  But  if  you  were  in  earnest,  I  shall  .always 
be  glad  that  I  took  this  step,  and  never  feel  regret,  no 
matter  what  comes  of  it.  Did  you  think  I  was  made  of 
stone,  not  to  be  moved  by  your  appeals  to  me  ?  I  am  a 
woman,  and  every  sentiment  you  have  given  utterance  to 
during  our  acquaintance  has  found  response  in  my  heart. 


200  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE   LOCKS. 

It  may  be  that  you  did  not  know  differently,  for  there  is 
too  mucli  sentiment  in  the  world  about  women,  and  not 
enough  knowledge.  But  I  did  not  deserve  all  the  good 
you  said  about  me ;  it  made  me  blush  to  realize  that  much 
that  you  have  said  in  my  praise  was  not  true,  though  I 
loved  you  for  what  you  said.  But  I  show  my  weakness 
now.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  come  here,  and, 
as  you  have  often  told  me,  when  anyone  starts  to  travel 
the  wrong  road,  the  doors  and  gates  are  all  open.  Yours 
were  all  open  to-night,  and  I  came  here  without  resist 
ance." 

Dorris  was  too  much  frustrated  to  attempt  to  explain 
how  his  front  gate  and  door  came  open,  which  was,  per 
haps,  the  result  of  carelessness ;  but  he  seemed  as  much 
alarmed  as  though  a  ghost,  instead  of  his  sweetheart,  had 
come  in  at  them.  Without  knowing  exactly  what  he  did, 
he  attempted  to  take  her  wet  wrap,  but  she  stepped  back 
from  him  excitedly. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !  "  she  said  excitedly.  "  Speak  to 
me ! " 

"  Sit  down,  and  take  off  your  wet  wrap,"  he  answered, 
"  and  I  will." 

She  unfastened  a  hook  at  her  throat,  and  the  garment 
fell  to  the  floor.  Her  dress  had  been  soiled  by  the  walk 
through  the  rain,  and  her  hair  was  dishevelled ;  but  she 
never  looked  so  handsome  before  as  she  did  when  she 
stood  in  front  of  Dorris,  radiant  with  excitement.  But 
instead  of  speaking  to  her,  as  he  had  promised,  Dorris  sat 
motionless  for  a  long  time,  looking  at  the  iloor.  The  girl 
watched  him  narrowly,  and  thought  he  trembled ;  indeed 
he  was  agitated  so  much  that  he  walked  over  to  the  win 
dow,  and  stood  looking  out  for  a  long  time. 

"  You  say  you  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  love 
me,  though  you  said  it  was  wrong,"  the  excited  girl  con- 


THE   STEP   ON   THE   STAIR.  201 

tinned.  "  Nor  could  I  help  loving  you  when  you  asked 
me  to,  though  you  said  I  should  not.  You  never  spoke 
to  me  in  your  life  that  you  did  not  ask  me  to  love  you. 
Everything  you  said  seemed  so  sincere  and  honest,  that  I 
forgot  my  own  existence  in  my  desire  to  be  with  you  in 
your  loneliness,  whatever  the  penalty  of  the  step  I  am 
taking  may  be.  I  have  so  much  confidence  in  you,  and  so 
much  love  for  you,  that  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  I  am 
doing  right,  and  that  I  never  will  regret  it.  Speak  to  me, 
and  say  that,  no  difference  what  the  world  may  say,  you 
are  pleased ;  I  care  only  for  that." 

A  picture,  unrolled  from  the  heavens,  has  appeared  on 
the  outside,  and  Allan  Dorris  is  looking  at  it  through  the 
window.  A  long  road,  through  a  rough  country,  and  dis 
appearing  in  misty  distance;  travellers  coming  into  it 
from  by-ways,  some  of  whom  disappear,  while  others 
trudge  wearily  along.  There  are  difficulties  in  the  way 
which  seem  insurmountable,  and  these  difficulties  are  more 
numerous  as  the  travellers  fade  into  the  distance ;  and 
likewise  the  number  of  travellers  decreases  as  the  journey 
is  lengthened.  At  length  only  one  traveller  is  to  be  seen, 
a  mere  speck  along  the  high  place  where  the  difficult  road 
winds.  He  tries  to  climb  a  hill,  beyond  which  he  will  be 
lost  to  view ;  but  he  fails  until  another  traveller  comes  up, 
when  they  help  each  other,  and  go  over  the  hill  together, 
waving  encouragement  to  those  who  are  below :  into  the 

O  O  7 

mist,  beyond  which  no  human  eye  can  look. 

"  During  our  entire  acquaintance,"  Dorris  said  finally, 
coming  over  to  her,  "you  have  said  or  done  nothing 
which  did  not  meet  my  approbation,  and  cause  me  to 
love  you  more  and  more.  You  did  not  force  yourself  to 
do  these  things;  they  were  natural,  and  that  was  the 
reason  I  told  you  to  keep  away  from  me,  for  I  saw  that 
our  acquaintance  was  becoming  dangerous ;  why,  I  have 


202       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

offered  to  tell  you  before.  But  what  you  have  done  this 
night  pleases  me  most  of  all.  I  have  been  praying  that 
you  would  do  it  for  months,  though  I  did  not  believe  you 
would,  and,  much  as  I  loved  you,  I  intended  going  away 
in  the  morning  for  your  good.  I  was  afraid  to  ask  you  to 
share  my  life,  fearing  you  would  accept,  for  I  am  a  coward 
when  you  are  in  danger ;  but  now  that  you  have  offered 
to  do  it,  and  relieved  me  of  the  fear  I  had  of  enticing  you 
into  it,  I  am  happier  than  I  can  express." 

Annie  Benton's  face  brightened,  and  she  put  her  hands 
in  his. 

"  Please  say  that  my  face  is  not  cold  and  passionless," 
she  said.  "  Once  you  told  me  that  when  we  were  out  on 
the  hills,  and  it  has  pained  me  ever  since.  Say  that  there 
is  hot  blood  and  passion  in  my  veins  now." 

"When  I  said  that,"  he  answered,  "I  was  provoked 
because  you  had  so  much  control.  I  had  none  at  all,  and 
declared  my  passion  within  a  few  weeks  after  I  knew  you, 
but  when  I  did  it,  you  only  looked  at  me  in  meek  surprise. 
But  I  understand  it  all  now,  and  I  want  to  say  that 
although  you  may  regard  what  you  have  done  to-night  as 
an  impropriety,  it  is  the  surest  road  to  my  heart.  If  it  is 
depravity,  I  will  make  you  proud  of  depravity,  for  I  will 
be  so  good  to  you  in  the  future  that  you  will  bless  the  day 
you  lost  your  womanly  control.  The  fact  that  you  have 
trusted  me  completely  caused  me  to  resolve  to  make  you 
a  happy  woman,  and  I  believe  I  can  do  it.  I  love  you 
because  you  have  blood  in  your  veins  instead  of  water, 
and  I  will  make  you  a  queen.  I  am  more  of  a  man  than 
you  give  me  credit  for ;  I  am  not  the  gloomy  misanthrope 
you  take  me  to  be,  for  you  have  rescued  me  from  that, 
and  I  will  make  the  people  of  Davy's  Bend  say  that 
Annie  Benton  was  wiser  than  the  best  of  them !  " 

He  struck  the  table  a  resounding  blow  with  his  fist,  and 


THE   STEP   ON   THE   STATE.  203 

had  the  enemies  of  the  man  been  able  to  look  at  his  face 
then,  they  would  have  been  afraid  of  him. 

"May  I  sit  on  your  knee,  and  put  my  arms  around  your 
neck  while  you  talk  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  picking  her  up  with  the  ease  of  a 
giant,  and  kissing  her  on  the  cheek.  "  You  may  ride  on 
my  back  all  your  life  if  you  will  only  remain  with  me.  I 
have  never  felt  like  a  man  until  this  moment,  and  those 
who  have  fault  to  find  with  my  course  had  better  keep 
out  of  the  way.  There  is  a  reason  why  you  and  I  should 
not  be  married  —  as  we  will  be  before  the  sun  shows  itself 
again,  for  I  intend  to  send  for  the  minister  to  come  to  the 
church  when  I  am  through  telling  you  how  much  I  love 
you,  and  you  shall  play  our  wedding  march  while  I  pump 
the  organ  —  but  I  am  in  the  right.  I  have  endured  mis 
ery  long  enough  to  accommodate  others ;  let  them  expect 
it  no  longer !  And  now  that  you  know  what  I  intend  to 
do,  listen  while  I  tell  you  who  I  am,  where  I  came  from, 
and  why  I  forced  you  to  your  present  novel  position." 

"  I  prefer  not  to  hear  it,"  the  girl  said,  without  looking 
up.  "  I  did  not  know  you  before  you  came  to  Davy's 
Bend :  I  am  not  concerned  in  your  history  beyond  that 
time,  and  as  a  mark  of  confidence  in  you  I  shall  reserve 
the  telling  of  it  until  our  married  life  has  been  tested : 
until  I  am  so  useful  to  you  (as  I  am  certain  you  will  be 
to  me)  that,  no  difference  what  your  secret  is,  we  will 
consider  it  a  blessing  for  bringing  us  together.  But  for 
the  disagreeable  part  of  yovir  life  we  would  never  have 
met ;  we  should  think  of  that." 

"Another  time,  then,  or  never,  as  you  prefer,"  he 
replied.  "  I  would  have  told  you  long  ago,  had  you  encour 
aged  me  to.  Anyway,  it  is  a  story  of  devotion  to  others, 
and  of  principle  practised  with  the  hatred  and  contempt 
and  cowardly  timidity  which  should  only  characterize  vil- 


204  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

lains,  and  villainous  actions;  of  principle  carried  to  such  an 
extent  as  to  become  a  wrong ;  but  from  this  hour  I  shall 
act  from  a  right  motive,  in  which  my  heart  sympathizes ; 
which  affords  me  a  return  for  effort,  and  which  will  aid  in 
making  me  a  better  man.  I  shall  live  to  accommodate 
myself  henceforth,  instead  of  as  a  favor  to  others.  But 
what  will  the  people  say  of  our  strange  marriage  ?  " 

"  I  fear  it  is  a  sad  depravity,"  the  girl  answered,  "  but 
I  don't  care." 

"  Nor  do  I ;  how  lucky!  If  it  satisfies  you  and  me,  let 
every  tongue  in  the  world  wag,  if  it  will  afford  them 
enjoyment.  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  hunt 
down  the  idle  rumors  that  may  find  their  way  into  circu 
lation  concerning  my  affairs,  for  what  does  it  matter 
whether  old  Miss  Maid  or  old  Mr.  Bach  thinks  good  or 
ill  of  me  ?  I  never  cared  about  such  trifles ;  I  care  less 
now  that  I  have  you." 

Had  Dorris  looked  at  the  upper  sash  of  the  window 
over  the  porch,  instead  of  at  the  girl,  he  would  have 
seen  a  malicious  face  looking  in  at  him,  but  he  was  too 
much  occupied  for  that,  and  the  face  was  soon  with 
drawn. 

"  I  have  never  expected  anything  that  was  unreason 
able,"  Dorris  said,  probably  recollecting  that  his  actions 
had  been  such  as  to  give  rise  to  a  suspicion  that  he  was  a 
fickle  man,  and  could  not  be  satisfied  with  anything.  "  I 
know  all  that  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be,  and  I  have 
hoped  for  nothing  beyond  that.  I  ask  no  more  than  a 
companion  of  whom  I  will  never  fire,  and  who  will  never 
tire  of  me  —  some  one  who  will  keep  me  agreeable  com 
pany  during  my  life,  and  regret  me  when  I  am  dead. 
There  are  people,  and  many  of  them,  who  fret  because 
they  long  for  that  which  is  impossible.  I  have  passed 
that  time  of  life,  and  will  be  content  with  what  life 


THE   STEP   ON   THE   STAIR.  205 

affords,  —  with  you.  I  am  not  a  boy,  but  a  man  of  experi 
ence,  and  I  know  I  will  never  tire  of  you.  I  have 
thought  of  the  ways  in  which  you  can  be  disagreeable, 
but  your  good  qualities  outweigh  them  all.  I  know  you 
are  not  an  angel ;  you  have  faults,  but  it  gives  me  plea 
sure  to  forgive  them  in  advance.  If  you  will  be  equally 
charitable  with  me,  we  will  be  very  happy." 

"  I  have  no  occasion  to  be  charitable  with  you,"  she 
answered. 

"  Then  you  never  will  have,"  was  his  reply.  "  Marriage 
is  the  greatest  inheritance  of  man,  but  it  is  either  a  feast ' 
or  a  famine.  The  contrast  between  a  man  who  is  happily 
married,  and  one  who  is  not,  is  as  great  as  the  contrast 
between  light  and  darkness,  but  there  are  many  more  of 
the  first  class  than  of  the  latter.  It  may  be  a  false  social 
system,  but  very  often  those  who  ought  not  to  marry 
hurry  into  it  in  the  greatest  haste.  I  have  thought  that 
the  qualities  which  attract  young  people  to  each  other  are 
the  very  ones  which  result  in  misery:  and  that  love 
should  commence  in  sincere  and  frank  friendship ;  not 
charity  or  sentimentality.  I  do  not  believe  in  affinities, 
but  I  do  believe  that  there  is  only  one  person  in  the 
world  exactly  suited  to  be  my  wife,  and  I  intend  to  kiss 
her  now." 

He  did  kiss  her,  but  with  the  tenderness  a  rough  man 
might  display  in  kissing  a  tiny  baby. 

"  Although  you  say  you  love  me,  and  I  know  you  do," 
the  girl  said  thoughtfully,  "you  have  always  acted  as 
though  you  were  afraid  of  me.  You  never  kissed  me 
but  once  before  in  your  life,  and  then  I  asked  you  to." 

"Afraid  of  you !  "  There  was  a  merry  good  humor  in 
Allan  Dorris's  voice  which  would  have  made  anyone  his 
friend.  "  Afraid  of  you !  Am  I  afraid  of  the  sunshine, 
or  of  a  fresh  breath  of  air !  I  am  afraid  of  nothing.  I 


206  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

had  the  same  fear  of  you  that  I  have  of  heaven  —  a  fear 
that  you  were  beyond  my  reach,  therefore  I  did  not  care 
to  contaminate  you  with  my  touch.  But  if  ever  I  get  to 
heaven,  I  will  not  be  afraid  of  it.  I  intend  to  make  love 
to  you  all  my  life,  though  I  shall  be  careful  not  to  make 
myself  tiresome.  We  will  reverse  the  rule,  and  become 
lovers  after  we  are  married.  You  once  said  that  I  was 
queer;  I  cannot  forget  that  charge,  somehow.  I  am 
queer ;  in  this  respect :  I  was  born  a  bull  with  a  hatred 
for  red  flags,  which  have  been  waved  in  my  face  ever 
since  I  can  remember.  I  may  have  been  mistaken,  but  I 
have  always  believed  that  I  never  had  a  friend  in  my  life, 
although  I  craved  one  more  than  anything  else.  But  you 
have  changed  all  this ;  I  am  contented  now,  and  ready  to 
give  peace  for  peace.  Of  the  millions  of  people  in  the 
world,  am  I  not  entitled  to  you?" 

He  held  her  up  in  his  arms,  as  if  he  would  exhibit  her, 
and  ask  if  that  small  bundle  was  an  unreasonable  request, 
since  he  asked  no  more,  and  promised  to  be  entirely  satis 
fied. 

The  loud  report  of  a  gun  on  the  outside,  followed  by  a 
crash  in  the  glass  in  the  upper  pane  of  the  window  as 
a  bullet  came  in  to  imbed  itself  in  the  wall  above 
their  heads,  startled  them.  The  girl  sprang- up  in  alarm, 
while  Dorris  hurriedly  ran  down  stairs  and  into  the 
yard. 

"A  careless  hunter  has  allowed  his  gun  to  explode  in 
the  road,"  he  said,  when  he  returned  after  a  long  absence. 
But  this  explanation  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  even  himself, 
for  he  soon  went  down  to  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  and 
aroused  Mrs.  Wedge,  by  throwing  the  window-prop  on 
the  roof  of  her  house.  On  the  appearance  of  that 
worthy  woman,  who  came  in  with  her  eyes  almost  closed 
from  the  sleepiness  which  still  clung  to  her,  but  who 


THE  STEP   ON  THE   STAIK.  207 

opened  them  very  wide  at  sight  of  Annie  Benton,  he 
said, — 

"Will   you  two   please  talk   about  the  weather,  and 

nothing   else,  until   I   return  ?     I  will  return  in  a  few 

O  * 

minutes,  and  make  the  necessary  explanations.  If  there 
is  anything  wrong  here,  I  will  make  it  right." 

He  left  the  house  hurriedly,  and  they  heard  the  big 
iron  gate  in  front  bang  after  him,  but  when  his  footsteps 
could  no  longer  be  heard,  and  they  no  longer  had  excuse 
for  listening  to  them,  the  two  women  sat  in  perfect 
silence.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Wedge  looked  cautiously 
around  at  Annie  Benton,  but,  meeting  her  eyes,  they  both 
looked  away  again,  and  tried  to  appear  at  their  ease, 
which  they  found  impossible.  Fortunately  Dorris  was 
not  gone  long,  and  when  he  came  back  he  put  the  girl's 
cloak  OH,  as  if  they  were  going  out. 

"  We  will  return  in  a  little  while,"  he  explained  to  Mrs. 
Wedge,  who  looked  up  curiously  as  he  walked  out  with 
Annie  Benton  on  his  arm.  "  If  you  care  to  wait,  we  will 
tell  you  a  secret  when  we  come  back,  as  a  reward  for  not 
speaking  while  I  was  out  of  the  room." 

Down  the  stairs  they  went,  out  at  the  front  gate,  and 
toward  the  town,  until  they  reached  the  church  door, 
which  they  entered.  On  the  inside  they  found  Reverend 
Wilton  waiting  for  them  at  the  chancel  rail,  and  al 
though  he  tried  to  appear  very  much  put  out  because  he 
was  disturbed  at  that  unseasonable  hour,  and  yawned 
indifferently,  he  was  really  interested.  Perhaps  he  was 
thinking  of  the  rare  story  he  would  have  to  tell  at 
breakfast. 

Don-is  had  evidently  given  instructions  as  to  what  was 
expected  of  him,  for  as  soon  as  they  stood  before  him  he 
read  the  marriage  service,  and  pronounced  them  man  and 
wife;  after  which  he  congratulated  them  and  left  the 


208  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

church,  which  was  probably  in  accordance  with  his  instruc 
tions,  too. 

A  single  light  burned  in  the  building,  which  barely 
extended  to  the  vaulted  ceiling,  and  which  did  not  pre 
vent  the  pews  and  the  pulpit  from  looking  like  live 
objects  surprised  at  being  disturbed  at  such  an  hour ;  and 
leading  his  wife  up  to  the  organ,  Dorris  said  :  "We  will 
have  the  wedding  march,  if  you  please,"  whereupon  he 
disappeared  behind  the  instrument  to  work  the  bellows. 

And  such  a  wedding  march  was  never  heard  before. 
The  girl  put  all  the  joy  of  her  heart  into  melody,  and 
made  chords  which  caused  Allan  Dorris  to  regret  that  he 
could  not  leave  the  bellows  and  go  round  in  front  to 
wave  his  hat  and  cheer.  He  was*  seated  on  a  box  in  the 
dusty  little  corner,  working  away  industriously ;  and  when 
he  heard  how  eloquently  the  girl  was  telling  the  story  of 
her  love  for  him,  tears  of  thankfulness  came  into  his  eyes 
and  surprised  them,  for  they  had  never  been  there  before. 
Your  cheek  and  mine  have  been  wet  with  tears  wrung 
from  the  heart  by  sorrow,  but  all  of  us  have  not  been  as 
happy  as  Allan  Dorris  was  on  his  wedding  night. 

But  there  was  more  than  joy  in  the  music ;  it  changed 
so  suddenly  into  the  plaintive  strain  of  the  minstrel 
baritone  as  to  cause  Allan  Dorris  to  start.  It  may 
have  been  because  the  player  was  executing  with  the 
left  hand,  and  without  a  light ;  but  certainly  it  was  diffi 
cult,  like  a  life.  But  when  the  chords  were  formed,  they 
were  very  sweet  and  tender,  as  we  might  say  with  a  sigh 
that  flowers  on  a  weary  man's  grave  were  appropriate. 

At  last  the  music  ceased,  dying  away  like  the  memory 
of  sobs  and  cheers  and  whispers,  and  taking  his  wife's  arm 
through  his  own,  Allan  Dorris  walked  back  to  The  Locks. 

O  ' 

Mrs.  Wedge  was  informed  of  the  marriage,  and  could 
do  nothing  but  cry  from  happiness;  and  after  she  left 


THE   STEP   OX   THE   STAIR.  209 

them  Allan  Dorris  and  his  wife  had  so  much  to  say  to 
each  other  that  daylight  came  to  congratulate  them  while 
they  were  still  seated  in  their  chairs. 

But  what  is  this  which  comes  into  the  mind  of  Annie 
Dorris  and  causes  her  to  start  up  in  alarm?  It  is  the 
recollection  of  Thompson  Beaton,  her  plain-spoken  father. 

"  O  Allan  !  "  she  said.     "  What  will  father  say  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  over  and  hear  what  he  says,"  Dorris  replied 
promptly,  putting  on  his  hat.  "You  can  go  along  if  you 
like." 

What  a  bold  fellow  he  was !  And  how  tenderly  he 
adjusted  the  wraps  around  his  wife,  after  she  had  signi 
fied  her  desire  to  accompany  him,  when  they  stepped  out 
into  the  frosty  morning  air ! 

It  was  about  Thompson  Benton's  time  to  start  down 
town,  and  as  they  paused  before  his  front  door,  not  with 
out  misgivings,  he  opened  it  wide  and  stood  before  them. 
Evidently  the  girl  had  not  been  missed  from  the  house, 
for  there  was  genuine  astonishment  in  the  father's  face  as 
he  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  said,  looking  at  Dorris 
sharply  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"  That  we  were  married  this  morning,"  Dorris  replied, 
not  in  the  least  frustrated,  though  his  wife  trembled  like 
a  leaf. 

He  gave  no  evidence  of  the  surprise  which  this  an 
nouncement  must  have  caused  him,  but  looked  sullenly 
at  Dorris  for  several  moments,  PS  though  he  had  a  mind 
to  try  his  strength  with  him  ;  but  when  his  eyes  fell  on 
his  child,  his  manner  changed  for  the  better.  Motioning 
them  to  follow  him,  they  closed  the  door,  and  all  sat 
down  in  the  pleasant  family  room  where  the  girl's  recol 
lection  began,  and  where  her  father  spent  his  little  leisuro 


210  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

in  the  evening.  Here  old  Thompson  looked  hard  at  the 
floor  until  he  had  thought  the  matter  over,  when  he  said,  — 

"I  have  never  found  fault  with  the  girl  in  my  life;  I 
have  never  had  occasion  to,  and  if  she  can  justify  what 
she  has  done  I  am  content.  Are  you  sure  you  are  right, 
Annie?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  such  a  softened  manner,  and 
there  was  so  much  tenderness  in  his  words,  that  the  girl 
forgot  the  fear  which  his  hard  look  had  inspired  when 
they  met  him  at  the  door,  and  going  over  to  him  she  put 
her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  softly  stroked  his  gray  hair 
as  she  replied,  — 

"That  which  I  have  done  has  made  me  very  happy. 
If  tli at  is  justification,  I  am  entirely  justified." 

"  I  requii'e  no  other  explanation,"  old  Thompson 
answered.  "From  a  little  child  you  have  been  dutiful, 
sensible,  and  capable,  and  though  my  selfishness  rebels 
because  I  am  to  lose  you,  a  father's  love  is  stronger  than 
selfishness,  and  I  am  glad  you  have  found  a  husband  you 
regard  as  worthy  of  your  affection.  You  have  drawn  a 
prize,  sir." 

He  looked  at  Dorris  as  a  defeated  man  might  look  at 
his  rival  when  he  thought  it  necessary  to  hide  his  morti 
fication,  and  offer  congratulations  which  he  did  not  feel. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it,"  Dorris  promptly  answered. 

"  She  is  very  much  like  her  mother,"  old  Thompson 
continued,  "  and  her  mother  was  the  best  woman  in  ten 
thousand.  If  I  gave  her  a  task  to  perform,  she  did  it  in 
a  manner  which  pleased  me,  and  she  was  always  a  plea 
sant  surprise.  This  is  a  surprise,  but  I  find  no  fault ;  I 
cannot  regret  that  Annie  knows  the  happiness  of  a  young 
wife.  I  am  a  rough  man,  but  I  made  her  mother  a  very 
happy  woman,  and  in  remembrance  of  that  I  am  glad  the 
daughter  has  found  a  husband  she  can  honor.  I  have  so 


THE   STEP   ON   THE   STAIR.  211 

much  confidence  in  the  girl's  good  sense  that  I  do  not 
question  her  judgment,  and  I  wish  you  joy  with  all  my 
heart." 

He  took  both  their  hands  in  his  for  a  moment,  and  hur 
ried  away,  Dorris  and  his  wife  watching  him  until  he  dis 
appeared  in  a  bend  of  the  street,  when  they  went  into  the 
house  to  make  their  peace  with  the  Ancient  Maiden. 

As  Thompson  Benton  hurried  along  toward  his  store, 
swinging  the  respectable-looking  iron  key  in  his  hand,  who 
can  know  the  regret  he  felt  to  lose  his  child?  His  practi 
cal  mind  would  not  help  him  now,  and  he  must  have  felt 
that  the  only  creature  in  all  the  world  he  cared  for  had 
deserted  him,  for  the  old  forget  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
young. 

It  was  a  fortunate  circumstance  that  the  day  was  bad 
and  customers  few,  for  they  would  not  have  been  treated 
well  had  they  appeared. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  PUKSUING  SHADOW. 

A  LLAJST  DORRIS  and  his  wife  Lad  been  up  in  the 
-£-»-  hills  watching  the  sunset,  and  at  dusk  were  returning 
leisurely  home.  They  were  very  fond  of  the  unfrequented 
locality  where  he  had  first  declared  his  passion,  and  when 
the  weather  was  fine  they  frequently  visited  it  to  imagine 
themselves  lovers  again,  which  was  easy  enough,  for  as 
man  and  wife  they  got  along  amazingly  well.  And  now, 
when  they  were  returning  at  nightfall,  a  shadow  crept 
after  them ;  from  bush  to  rock,  and  from  tree  to  shrub, 
crawling  and  stealing  along  like  a  beast  watching  its  prey. 

Pretty  Annie  Dorris,  pi-ettier  than  ever  before,  was  ex 
pressing  a  fear  in  her  winning  way  that  their  happiness 
was  too  great  to  last,  and  that  something  dreadful  would 
happen  to  them.  But  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  lurking, 
creeping  shadow  which  had  hurried  forward,  and  now 
stood  almost  within  arm's  length,  as  her  husband  re 
plied,  — 

"  I  have  been  so  discontented  all  my  life,  and  am  so  con 
tented  now,  that  I  believe  the  Fates  will  guard  me  from 
it  in  pity.  It  is  not  much  that  I  ask  ;  a  country  girl  to  be 
my  wife,  and  love  me  —  nothing  more.  And  it  will  al 
ways  be  my  endeavor  to  be  so  useful  to  the  country  girl 
that  she  will  be  happy,  too,  so  that  the  simple  boon  of 
peace  is  not  too  much  to  ask  when  it  will  make  two  peo 
ple  entirely  happy.  I  cheerfully  give  up  my  place  in  the 
strife  for  greatness  and  riches  in  which  men  seem  to  be 
212 


THE   PURSUING   SHADOW.  213 

al  \vays  engaged,  and  will  be  content  with  the  good  health 
and  plenty  which  my  simple  life  here  will  bring  me.  As 
for  a  living,  I  can  make  that  easy  enough ;  I  am  making 
more  even  now  than  we  can  possibly  spend.  I  hope  your 
fears  are  not  substantial." 

The  country  girl  had  her  arm  through  her  husband's, 
and  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  such  a  troubled 
expression  that  he  stopped  in  the  road. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  am  fearful  only  because  I  love  you  so 
much,"  she  said.  "It  almost  kills  me  when  I  think  that 
any  harm  might  happen  to  you." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  replied,  "  but  you 
are  always  saying  something  which  pleases  me.  You  look 
handsome  to-night ;  you  look  prettier  now  than  before  you 
were  married,  and  I  think  more  of  you.  You  don't  fade 
out,  and  'I  love  you  for  that ;  you  are  as  fresh  and  as  girl 
ish  as  you  ever  were  before  we  were  married.  I  think  it 
an  evidence  of  good  blood." 

"Now*you  are  pleasing  me,"  his  wife  said  laughingly. 
"  I  have  feared  very  often  that  you  would  not  like  me  so 
well  when  you  knew  me  better,  and  that  you  would  finally 
tire  of  me." 

"  But  I  don't,"  Dorris  replied.  "  The  more  I  know  of 
you  the  better  I  like  you.  It 's  not  usual,  but  I  am  more 
in  love  after  marriage  than  I  was  before." 

"  I  have  mingled  so  little  with  women,"  the  wife  said 
seriously,  "  that  I  sometimes  fear  that  I  am  not  like  others 
of  my  sex  in  manners  and  dress  and  inclination.  Did  you 
ever  notice  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have,"  he  said. 

She  turned  upon  him  with  mock  fierceness,  and  pre 
tended  to  be  very  indignant. 

"  Because  you  are  not  like  other  women,  who  act  by 
rule,  and  are  nearly  all  alike,  is  the  reason  I  have  no  greater 


214       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

ambition  than  to  be  tied  to  your  apron-strings,"  he  said. 
"  I  think  your  freshness  and  originality  are  your  greatest 
charms." 

"  Long  before  I  ever  thought  of  becoming  a  wife  myself," 
she  said,  seriously  again,  "  I  noticed  that  most  men  seemed 
to  lack  a  knowledge  of  women  ;  that  they  regarded  them 
as  angels  while  they  were  girls,  and  were  disappointed 
because  they  turned  out  to  be  women  as  wives.  I  am  not 
unjust,  but  I  have  thought  the  women  were  partly  respon 
sible  for  this,  since  many  of  them  exhibit  themselves  like 
dolls,  and  pretend  to  be  more  than  they  are.  This  is  the 
reason  why  I  am  pleased  that  you  are  not  disappointed 
in  me." 

"  As  to  your  being  an  angel,"  he  laughingly  replied,  "  I 
know  you  arc  not  one,  and  I  am  glad' of  it.  I  have  an  idea 
that  an  angel  would  soon  tire  of  me,  and  fly  away  in  disgust, 
to  warn  its  companions  that  men  were  not  worth  saving. 
There  are  some  women  so  amiable  that  no  matter  to 
what  extent  their  affairs  go  wrong,  they  cannot  muster  up 
enough  energetic  regret  to  cause  them  to  supply  a  remedy. 
I  am  not  so  fond  of  amiability  as  to  desire  it  at  that  price. 
Whenever  you  find  capacity  you  will  find  temper,  and  I 
imagine  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  stir  you  up,  for  you 
are  as  capable  a  woman  as  ever  I  knew.  Have  tit  you 
temper?" 

"  Plenty  of  it ;  too  much,"  she  ansAvered. 

They  both  laughed  at  this  frank  confession,  and  Borris 
took  occasion  to  say  that  there  was  not  a  spark  of  it  in  his 
nature,  though  there  was  temper  written  in  every  line  of 
his  countenance,  and  that  he  would  have  been  an  ugly 
man  when  once  fully  aroused  was  certain. 

They  walked  on  again,  and  the  shadow  followed,  as  if 
anxious  to  hear  what  they  were  saying. 

"I  can't  account  for  it  myself,"  Dorris  continued,  "  but 


THE  PURSUING   SHADOW.  215 

I  enjoy  your  company  as  much  now  as  I  did  before  we 
were  married.  It  does  me  as  much  good  to  talk  love  to 
you ;  I  suppose  it  must  be  because  you  deserve  it.  The 
fact  that  you  are  as  careful  to  look  well  as  you  ever  did 
may  have  something  to  do  with  it,  but  it  is  certainly  the 
case.  I  have  heard  men  abused  a  great  deal  for  neglect 
ing  their  wives  after  marriage,  but  it  never  occurs  to  me 
to  neglect  you.  I  don't  want  to  neglect  you ;  I  think  too 
much  of  you.  If  I  should  fail  to  be  as  considerate  of  you 
as  you  are  of  me,  I  know  that  I  would  no  longer  receive 
the  full  measure  of  your  confidence  and  love,  which  is 
such  a  comfort  to  me,  therefore  it  is  my  first  ambition  to 
be  just  and  honest  with  you  in  everything.  The  ambition 
affords  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  too,  for  I  am  never  so 
well  satisfied  as  when  in  your  company.  With  you  by  my 
side,  there  is  nothing  else  that  I  crave  in  this  world  or  the 
next." 

"  O  Allan  !     Nothing  in  the  next?  " 

They  had  seated  themselves  on  a  rough  seat  in  a  sort  of 
park  on  the  hillside,  and  Dorris  considered  the  matter. 

"  Well,  if  you  go  to  heaven,  I  want  to  go.  Of  course 
you  will  go,  for  you  are  good  enough,  therefore  I  in 
tend  to  do  the  best  I  can,  so  that,  when  we  come  to  be 
judged,  the  Master  will  realize  how  much  we  love  each 
other,  and  conclude  not  to  separate  us.  But  I  depend  on 
you ;  He  will  let  me  in  to  please  you  —  not  because  I  de 
serve  it." 

"  I  know  you  do  not  think  as  I  do  about  it,"  she  an 
swered,  "  but  it  is  possible  that  you  have  not  investigated 
as  I  have.  I  am  not  a  foolish  girl,  but  a  serious  woman, 
and  have  studied  and  thought  a  great  deal,  and  I  am  cer 
tain  there  is  something  more  than  this  life.  I  have  never 
mentioned  the  subject  to  you  before,  because  I  know  that 
a  great  many  come  to  dislike  religion  because  they  hear 


216  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

so  much  of  it  from  persons  no  better  than  themselves,  but 
everything  teaches  us  that  we  shall  live  again,  and  it  wor 
ries  me  a  great  deal  because  you  think  lightly  about  a 
matter  which  seems  so  dreadfully  serious.  My  mothers 
faith  convinces  me  of  it,  though  I  cannot  tell  you  why. 
I  am  not  prepared,  as  she  was,  by  a  long  life  of  purity  to 
receive  the  evidence  ;  but  promise  me  that  you  will  think 
about  it,  and  not  combat  your  own  judgment." 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  it  much,  and  investigated 
but  little,"  he  answered.  "  It  has  always  been  natural  for 
me  to  think  of  the  grave  as  the  end  of  everything,  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned.  But  I  have  confidence  in  your  intel 
ligence  and  judgment;  if  you  have  investigated,  and 
believe,  that  is  enough  for  me ;  I  believe.  Please  do  not 
worry  about  it  any  more ;  I  will  try  very  hard  to  remain 
with  you." 

He  said  it  lightly,  yet  there  was  enough  seriousness  in 
his  manner  to  convince  her  that  his  love  for  her  was  hon 
est,  even  if  his  religion  was  not. 

"  Religion  is  not  natural  with  me :  I  feel  no  necessity  for 
it  or  lack  of  it,"  he  said  again.  "  But  I  have  no  objection 
to  it ;  on  the  contrary,  I  have  always  liked  the  idea,  but  I 
lack  the  necessary  faith.  It  would  be  pleasant  for  me  to 
believe  that,  in  the  next  country,  a  day's  journey  removed, 
good  gifts  might  be  found ;  but  if  I  could  not  believe  it, 
I  could  not  be  reasonably  blamed  for  my  refusal  to  attempt 
the  journey.  I  might  even  regret  that  the  accounts  were 
not  true;  but  I  would  not  insist  that  they  were  true 
against  my  honest  convictions,  because  I  hoped  they  were. 
I  am  religious  enough  in  sentiment,  but  my  brain  is  an 
inexorable  skeptic.  Nothing  is  more  pleasing  to  me  than 
the  promise  of  your  faith.  What  a  blessed  hope  it  is, 
that  after  death  you  will  live  in  a  land  of  perpetual  sum 
mer  ;  and  exist  forever  with  your  friends  where  there  is 


THE  PURSUING   SHADOW.  217 

only  peace  and  content !  I  am  sure  I  can  never  see  as 
much  of  you  as  I  want  to  in  this  life,  and  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  I  hope  we  will  be  reunited  beyond  the 
grave,  and  live  forever  to  love  each  other,  even  as  we  do 
now.  I  am  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  necessary  to  en 
sure  this  future ;  it  would  be  a  pleasure  for  me  to  make 
greater  sacrifices  than  are  required,  according  to  common 
rumor,  for  they  are  not  at  all  exacting,  except  in  the  par 
ticular  of  faith ;  but  that  I  lack,  to  a  most  alarming  extent, 
though  I  cannot  help  it.  You  cannot  have  faith  because 
it  is  your  duty  any  more  than  you  can  love  because  it  is 
your  duty.  I  only  regret  that  I  cannot  be  religious  as 
natui'ally  as  I  love  you,  but  I  cannot,  though  I  try  because 
you  want  me  to.  I  want  to  believe  that  men  do  not  grow 
old  and  become  a  burden  to  themselves  and  those  around 
them ;  but  I  know  differently,  and  while  I  hope  that  there 
will  be  a  resurrection,  I  know  that  those  who  have  gone 
away  on  the  journey  which  begins  with  death  send  back  no 
messenger,  and  that  nothing  is  known  of  heaven  except 
the  declaration  of  pious  people  that  they  believe  in  it.  I 
love  to  hear  the  laughter  of  children,  but  it  does  not  con 
vince  me  that  all  the  world  is  in  a  laughing  mood,  and 
that  there  are  no  tears.  No  one  can  find  fault  with  your 
religion  except  that  they  cannot  believe  in  it.  Every 
thing  in  nature  teaches  us  that  we  will  return  to  dust,  and 
that  we  will  be  resurrected  only  as  dust  by  the  idle 
winds.  ITou  don't  mind  that  I  speak  freely?" 

"  No." 

"  I  have  tried  all  my  life  to  convince  myself  that  I  pos 
sessed  the  spark  of  immortality,  but  my  stubborn  brain 
resists  the  attempt.  All  my  reasoning  convinces  me  that 
I  live  for  the  same  reason  that  my  horse  exists.  I  am  su 
perior  to  the  faithful  animal  only  in  intelligence,  for  in 
physical  organization  I  am  only  an  animal.  When  an 


218  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

animal  dies,  I  see  its  body  dwindle  away  until  there  is 
nothing  left ;  it  becomes  dust  again.  I  hope  that  I  may 
share  a  different  fate,  but  I  believe  that  I  shall  pass  away 
in  precisely  the  same  manner.  Understand  me ;  I  want 
to  be  religious,  but  I  cannot  be.  There  are  some  people 
—  I  suppose  there  are  a  great  many,  though  I  never  knew 
but  one  personally  —  who  ought  to  live  forever  ;  they  are 
too  rare  to  die.  You  are  one  of  them,  but  I  fear  you  will 
be  lost  to  the  world  in  the  course  of  nature.  You  ought 
to  be  preserved  for  the  good  you  can  accomplish  by  play 
ing  the  organ.  I  never  believe  in  heaven  so  much  as 
when  I  am  in  the  back  pews  listening  to  your  music. 
There  is  more  religion  in  the  old  organ  when  you  are  at 
the  keyboard  than  in  all  the  people  who  listen  to  it  put 
together ;  and  I  sometimes  think  that  those  who  write  the 
music  and  the  sengs  are  inspired,  though  when  you  know 
them,  their  personal  characters  do  not  encourage  that  im 
pression." 

She  put  her  hand  to  his  mouth  as  if  to  stop  him,  but  he 
pushed  it  away  with  a  laugh,  and  continued,  — 

"  Let  me  finish,  that  you  may  know  what  I  really  am, 
and  then  I  will  never  mention  the  subject  again.  But  don't 
think  me  worse  than  other  men  for  my  unbelief;  they 
nearly  all  think  as  I  do,  though  only  the  bad  ones  say  so. 
All  good  men  rejoice  that  there  is  a  pleasing  hope  in  re 
ligion,  and  encourage  it  all  they  can,  but  only  a  few  of 
them  have  your  faith." 

"  All  be  well  yet,  Allan,"  the  wife  answered.  "  You 
have  promised  to  try  and  get  rid  of  your  unbelief,  and  I 
know  that  you  will  be  honest  in  it.  The  Master  whom 
I  serve  next  to  you  —  I  fear  I  am  becoming -very  wicked 
myself,  for  you  are  more  to  me  than  everything  else  — " 

"  There  it  is  again,"  Dorris  said,  looking  at  her,  half 
laughing.  "  That  expression  was  n't  studied,  I  know,  but 


THE  PURSUING   SHADOW.  219 

it  pleases  me  greatly.  You  are  always  at  it,  though  you 
have  a  right  to  now." 

"  lie  is  more  considerate  than  any  of  us  imagine,  and  if 
He  knows  you  did  not  believe,  He  will  also  know  that 
you  could  not,  and  did  not  intend  any  disrespect." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  he  answered.  "  I  loved 
you  before  I  knew  you,  though  I  did  not  believe  you  ex 
isted." 

"But  you  did  find  me.  Is  it  not  possible  that  you  will 
find  Him,  though  you  do  not  believe  He  exists?" 

"  That  is  worth  thinking  about.  The  next  time  I  take 
a  long  ride  into  the  country  I  will  think  it  over,  if  I  can 
get  you  out  of  my  mind  long  enough.  One  thing,  how 
ever,  is  certain  ;  I  want  to  follow  you,  wherever  that  leads 
me.  Let  me  add,  too,  that  in  what  I  have  said  I  intend 
no  disrespect.  It  would  be  impudent  in  me,  a  single  peb 
ble  in  the  sands  surrounding  the  shores  of  eternity,  to 
speak  ill  of  a  faith  which  is  held  by  so  many  thousands 
of  intelligent  and  worthy  people.  I  speak  freely  to  you, 
as  my  wife,  my  confidant,  that  you  may  know  what  I 
am." 

"  But  you  are  leading,  Allan,  and  I  am  following,"  she 
said.  "  You  are  kind  enough  to  believe  that  my  future  is 
assured,  but  it  is  not  unless  you  are  saved.  You  can  save 
both  of  us  by  saving  yourself.  If  we  were  at  the  judg 
ment  now,  and  you  should  be  cast  out,  I  would  follow  you. 
I  might  be  of  some  use  to  you  even  there." 

"  That 's  horrible  to  think  about,"  he  replied,  rising  to 
his  feet;  "but  it  pleases  me.  Anyway,  little  woman,  we 
get  along  delightfully  here ;  I  hope  we  will  always  be  as 
well  off  as  we  are  now.  If  the  next  world  affords  me 
as  much  pleasure  as  this  one  has  during  the  past  three 
months,  I  shall  be  more  than  satisfied.  It  is  said  that  a 
man  is  very  happy  when  he  is  in  love,  and  I  am  growing 


220  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

more  in  love  with  my  wife  every  day.  I  suppose  it  is 
because  I  never  was  in  love  before.  I  have  had  extensive 
experience  in  everything  else ;  I  know  a  little  of  every 
thing  else.  This  may  be  the  reason  why  my  honeymoon 
lasts  so  long." 

"  When  I  met  you  that  afternoon,  out  in  the  hills,"  she 
answered,  "you  were  such  an  expert  at  love-making  that 
I  was  at  first  afraid  of  you.  If  ever  man  made  a  desper 
ate,  cunning  love  to  a  woman,  you  made  it  to  me;  but  I 
soon  got  over  my  timidity,  and  knew  you  were  only  des 
perately  in  earnest,  which  made  me  love  you  until  I  went 
mad.  I  had  nothing  to  give  you  but  myself,  and  that  I 
gave  so  readily  that  I  sometimes  fear  —  when  you  are 
away  from  me ;  I  never  think  of  it  at  any  other  time  — 
that  you  accuse  me  for  it." 

"It  so  happened,"  he  answered,  "that  you  did  exactly 
what  I  wanted  you  to  do,  though  I  am  not  surprised  at  it 
now,  since  discovering  how  naturally  you  do  a  hundred 
things  a  day  to  please  me.  Accuse  you  ?  " 

He  laughed  good-naturedly  at  the  thought. 

"  Instead  of  that,  it  is  the  boast  of  my  life  that  my 
sweetheart,  my  vision  which  came  true,  had  so  much  con 
fidence  in  me  that  she  placed  herself  in  my  keeping  with 
out  conditions  or  promises.  You  are  the  hope  I  have  had 
all  my  life  ;  you  are  the  heaven  I  have  coveted;  and  don't 
suppose  that  I  find  fault  because  the  realization  is  better 
than  the  dream.  When  you  go  to  heaven,  and  find  that 
it  is  a  better  place  than  you  imagined,  you  will  not  accuse 
the  Master  of  a  lack  of  propriety  because  he  is  more  for 
giving  of  your  faults  than  you  expected  ;  nor  do  I.  Dis 
miss  that  thought  forever,  to  oblige  me,  and  believe,  instead, 
that  your  single  fault  turned  out  to  be  my  greatest  blessinpr. 
If  I  mnde  desperate  love  to  you  up  in  the  hills,  it  was 
natural,  for  I  had  no  previous  expei'ience.  I  cannot  re- 


THE  PURSUING   SHADOW.  221 

member  that  I  ever  was  a  young  man  ;  I  was  first  a  child, 
and  then  a  man  with  grave  responsibilities.  But  the  fancy 
I  told  you  about  —  the  Maid  of  Air  —  I  always  loved  it 
until  I  found  you." 

Putting  her  arm  through  his,  they  walked  toward  the 
town,  and  the  shadow  emerged  from  a  clump  of  bushes 
within  a  few  feet  of  where  they  had  been  sitting.  The 
married  lovers  walked  on,  unconscious  of  the  presence ; 
and  occasionally  the  laugh  of  Mrs.  Dorris  came  to  the 
shadow  on  the  wind,  which  caused  it  to  listen  anxiously, 
and  creep  on  after  them  again. 

In  turning  out  of  the  path  that  led  up  into  the  hills, 
and  coming  into  the  road,  Dorris  and  his  wife  met  Tug 
and  Silas,  who  were  loitering  about,  as  usual;  Tug  in 
front,  carrying  the  gun,  and  Silas  lagging  behind. 

"  What  now  ?  "  Dorris  said  good-naturedly,  on  coming 
up  with  them.  "  What  are  you  up  to  to-night  ?  " 

"  On  a  Wednesday  night,"  Tug  replied,  putting  the 
stock  of  the  gun  on  the  ground,  and  turning  his  head  to 
one  side  to  get  a  square  sight  at  the  woman,  "  the  woods 
are  full  of  rabbits.  We  are  out  looking  for  them." 

"  Why  on  Wednesday  night  ?  " 

Tug  removed  his  gaze  from  Mrs.  Dorris  to  Silas. 

"When  do  we  find  our  game?"  he  inquired. 

"On  Wednesday;  at  night,"  the  little  man 'answered 
meekly. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  myself,"  Tug  continued,  this 
time  taking  a  shot  at  Dorris ;  "but  Wednesday  it  is.  You 
are  both  looking  mighty  well." 

They  thanked  him  for  his  politeness,  and  added  that 
they  were  feeling  well. 

"  They  did  n't  think  much  of  you  when  you  came,"  he 
said,  pointing  a  finger  at  Dorris,  which  looked  like  a  pistol, 
"but  they  have  changed  their  minds.  Even  Reverend 


222       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Wilton  says  you  will  do  ;  it 's  the  first  kind  word  he  ever 
said  of  anybody.  It  came  out — Silas,  how  did  it  coma 
out?" 

"  Like  a  tooth,"  Silas  answered,  who  had  been  standing 
by  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Like  a  back  tooth,  you  told  me.  Come  now,  did  n't 
you  say  a  back  tooth  ?  " 

Silas  muttered  something  which  was  accepted  as  an  ac 
knowledgment,  and  Tug  went  on,  — 

"Why  did  n't  you  say  so,  then  ?  Why  do  you  want  to 
put  it  on  me  in  the  presence  of  the  lady?  But  Reverend 
Wilton  never  said  anything  bad  about  you,  or  anybody 
else  ;  he 's  too  lazy  for  that.  I  only  wonder  that  he  did  n't 
drop  over  from  exhaustion  when  he  said  you  'd  do.  Well, 
I  should  say  you  would  do ;  eh,  pretty  girl?  " 

Annie  Dorris  made  no  other  answer  than  to  cling  closer 
to  her  husband,  and  Tug  regarded  them  with  apparent 
pleasure. 

"  And  there 's  Uncle  Ponsonboy.  Silas,  what  does 
Uncle  Ponsonboy  say  ?  " 

"  He  says  that  Mr.  Dorris  is  a  man  of  promise,"  Davy 
answered. 

"  Oh,  does  he  ?  Well,  he  's  not  the  kind  of  a  man  of 
promise,  Uncle  Ponsonboy  is,  who  has  been  promising  to 
distinguish  himself  for  forty  years.  Old  Albert  reminds 
me  of  a  nephew  of  my  wife's.  I  supported  him  four 
years  m  idleness,  but  he  was  always  boasting  that  he  was 
able  to  take  care  of  himself,  and  that  he  asked  favors  of 
nobody.  He  used  to  fill  up  on  my  bread  and  meat,  and 
lounge  in  front  of  my  fire,  and  declare  that  he  never  knew 
solid  content  until  he  began  to  make  his  own  living,  al 
though  he  did  nothing  except  to  write  to  his  folks,  and  s:>y 
that  they  need  n't  worry  about  him,  —  he  was  able  to  tr.ke 
care  of  himself.  But  the  old  lady  holds  out  against  you." 


THE  PURSUING   SHADOW.  223 

Tug  swallowed  a  laugh  with  a  great  effort,  apparently 
locking  it  up  with  a  spring  lock,  for  there  was  a  click  in 
his  throat  as  he  took  aim  at  Dorris  again  and  continued, 
but  not  before  his  scalp  had  returned  to  its  place  after 
cr-Twlirer  over  on  his  forehead  to  look  at  the  smile,  — 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  though.  The  old  lady  and  I  never 
agree  on  anything.  I  like  the  devil  because  she  hates  him. 
1  shall  be  quite  content  in  purg  if  she  fails  to  like  it." 

Allan  Dorris  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  purgatory,"  he  said,  finishing  the  abbreviation, 
and  turning  to  his  wife,  who  laughed  at  the  idea,  "  we 
were  talking  about  that  just  before  you  came  up." 

"  Neither  of  you  need  worry  about  that"  Tug  said. 
"  You  are  all  right.  I  am  the  devil's  partner,  and  I  know. 
But  if  you  should  happen  down  there  by  any  mischance, 
I  will  give  you  the  best  accommodations  the  place  affords. 
If  there  is  an  ice-box  there,  you  shall  have  a  room  in  it ; 
but  no  ice-water  for  the  old  lady.  I  insist  on  that  condi 
tion." 

They  were  very  much  amused  at  his  odd  talk,  and  prom 
ised  that  his  instructions  should  be  obeyed  in  case  they 
became  his  guests. 

"  But  why  are  you  the  devil's  partner?"  Dorris  asked. 

"  Pie  must  have  assistants,  of  course,"  Tug  replied,  "  and 
I  shall  make  application  to  enter  his  service  as  soon  as  1 
arrive.  I  want  to  get  even  with  Uncle  Ponsonboy." 

Tug  locked  up  a  laugh  again  with  a  sharp  click  of  the 
lock,  and  his  scalp  hurried  back  to  its  place  on  learning 
tli at  it  was  a  false  alarm. 

"  I  want  to  get  a  note  from  him  to  this  effect :  '  Dear 
Tug  :  For  the  sake  of  old  acquaintance,  send  me  a  drop  of 
water.'  Whereupon  I  will  take  my  iron  pen  in  hand, 
and  reply  :  '  Uncle  Ponsonboy  :  Drink  your  tears.'  Then 
I  will  instruct  one  of  my  devilish  assistants  to  lock 


224  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE   LOCKS. 

him  tip,  and  never  let  him  see  the  cheerful  light  of  the 
fires  again.  As  the  door  closes,  I  will  say  to  him,  as  I 
now  say  to  you,  —  Good-night." 

Tug  and  Silas  walked  toward  the  hills,  and  Dorris  and 
his  wife  toward  the  town,  but  the  shadow  no  longer 
followed  them ;  it  had  disappeared. 

In  case  the  shadow  came  back  that  night  to  prowl 
around  The  Locks,  and  peer  in  at  the  windows,  it  found 
a  determined-looking  man  on  guard,  carrying  a  wicked- 
looking  gun. 

Had  the  eyes  of  the  shadow  followed  the  feet  of  the 
man,  it  would  have  noted  that  they  walked  around  the 
stone  wall  at  regular  intervals,  and  that  they  stopped  oc 
casionally,  as  if  listening;  it  would  have  seen  them 
strolling  leisurely  away  at  the  first  approach  of  dawn, 
carrying  the  gun  and  Tug's  burly  body  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  EISE  IN  THE  EIVER. 

rriHE  rain  had  been  falling  at  intervals  for  weeks,  and  the 
-*-  sluggish  river,  which  usually  crawled  at  the  foot  of 
the  town  in  qniet  submission,  had  become  a  dangerous 
torrent.  Long  since  out  of  its  banks,  its  waters  poured 
through  the  bottoms  with  an  angry  roar,  and  at  night 

O  O    «/ 

those  who  gathered  on  the  brink  in  the  town  to  mark  its 
steady  rising  could  hear  cries  of  distress  from  the  heavy 
timber,  the  firing  of  guns,  and  other  alarms. 

For  two  days  parties  had  been  out  with  boats  of  every 
description,  rescuing  those  who  believed  that  the  waters 
would  soon  go  down,  and  remained  until  escape  was  im 
possible,  imprisoned  in  the  upper  rooms  of  their  houses ; 
and  each  returning  party  brought  the  most  distressing 
news  yet  heard  of  the  havoc  wrought  by  the  flood.  Reach 
ing  from  hill  to  hill,  the  angry  waters  ploughed  np  fail- 
fields  like  heavy  shot  fired  in  battle,  and  crept  into  pretty 
homes  to  destroy  in  a  night  the  work  of  years,  wresting 
treasures  from  their  fastenings  with  remorseless  fury, 
and  hurrying  away  with  them  like  living  thieves. 

The  citizens  of  Davy's  Bend  feared  that  the  sun  had 
been  drowned  by  the  flood  in  the  heavens,  as  the  people 
were  being  drowned  by  the  flood  in  the  bottoms,  for  its 
kindly  face  had  not  appeared  in  two  weeks.  The  roads 
and  lanes  in  the  country,  highways  no  longer,  were  aban 
doned  to  the  rain  and  the  mist,  for  no  travellers  ventured 
upon  them,  and  if  the  town  had  been  dull  before,  it  was 

225 


226       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

now  doubly  so,  giving  the  people  abundance  of  time  in 
which  to  recount  their  miseries.  Men  who  ventured  out 
in  wagons  told  wonderful  tales,  on  their  return,  of  the  reign 
of  the  waters,  for  insignificant  streams  which  had  long 
been  regarded  with  familiar  contempt  had  become  danger 
ous  rivers,  roaring  and  crashing  through  fruitful  fields  in 
mad  haste  to  join  the  floods.  Great  lakes  occupied  the 
low  places  for  so  many  days  that  the  people  feared  the 
land  itself  had  floated  away,  leaving  caverns  in  the  place 
of  their  fields,  and  there  was  distress  in  the  country  as 
well  as  in  the  town.  Rude  boats  to  ply  upon  the  newly 
arrived  waters  were  hastily  constructed  by  men  who  did 
not  know  how  to  use  them,  never  having  lived  near  a 
navigable  stream,  but  there  seemed  a  chance  for  them  to 
learn,  for  the  waters  increased  steadily  every  hour. 

As  they  lay  in  their  beds  at  night,  if  they  wakened  and 
found  that  the  rain  had  ceased,  the  people  of  the  town 
hoped  that  the  end  had  come  at  last,  and  that  the  waters 
would  soon  subside,  but  before  they  had  framed  their 
congratulations,  the  gentle  patter  of  the  rain  was  heard 
on  their  roofs  once  more,  which  continued  through  the 
long  night,  ceasing  only  occasionally,  that  the  cries  of  dis 
tress  and  the  alarms  from  the  bottom  might  be  heard, 
whereupon  the  rain  commenced  again  with  joyful  vigor, 
sure  that  its  fury  was  not  without  result. 

The  rocky  hills  above  and  below  the  town  were  oozy 
and  wet;  and  those  who  roameu  about  heard  great 
splashes  in  the  water,  and  knew  that  j  ortions  of  the  bluff 
were  tumbling  into  the  river,  as  ic  tiled  of  being  steady 
and  reliable  while  everything  else  was  failing,  and  anxious 
to  join  the  tide  and  aid  in  the  general  destruction,  as 
well  as  to  get  away  from  a  place  which  seemed  so  unfortu 
nate. 

The  mild  river,  patient  and  uncomplaining  so  long,  was 


THE   RISE  IK   THE   RIVER.  227 

master  now,  and  it  roared  like  a  monster  proud  of  its 
conquest,  and  declaring  its  intention  to  be  wicked  and 
fierce  forever.  The  observers  could  not  understand,  so 
great  was  the  awful  flood,  how  the  waters  could  ever 
subside,  for  surely  all  the  lower  country  must  have  been 
flooded  days  before,  and  even  those  who  lived  in  the 
hills  were  filled  with  grave  apprehensions. 

Every  morning  the  simple  registers,  which  the  people 
put  up  along  the  creeks  and  sloughs,  showed  an  alarming 
rise,  and  they  feared  that  if  the  rain  continued  the  earth 
itself  would  become  liquid  at  last,  and  resolve  itself  into 
a  vast  sea  without  shores. 

No  one  knew  how  the  news  came,  but  there  seemed  to 
be  whispers  in  the  air  that  in  the  upper  country  the  flood 
was  even  worse  than  at  Davy's  Bend,  which  added  to  the 
general  apprehension,  a^cl  many  believed  that  the  rainbow 
was  about  to  prove  faithless  at  last.  Houses  of  a  pattern 
barely  familiar  to  the  people  occasionally  floated  past  the 
town  in  the  cm-rent,  and  in  one  of  them  rode  a  man  who 
refused  to  leave  his  property  when  the  relief  boats  put 
off  to  him ;  for  he  said  that  he  came  from  hundreds  of 
miles  above,  and  that  since  the  world  seemed  to  be  turn 
ing  into  water,"  he  preferred  his  strange  craft  to  the 
crumbling  hills.  As  he  floated  away,  stark  mad  from 
excitement,  fear,  and  hunger,  he  called  back  to  the  men 
to  follow  if  they  valued  their  lives ;  for  a  Avave  twenty 
feet  high  was  coming  down  the  river,  carrying  the  towns 
along  the  bluffs  with  it. 

Bridges  which  had  been  built  across  gullies  in  the 
highlands  were  seen  hurrying  by  every  hour,  and  it 
seemed  that  the  hill  on  which  Davy's  Bend  was  built 
would  shortly  tremble,  and  start  slowly  down  the  river,  at 
last  gratifying  the  ambition  of  the  people  to  get  away. 

Among  those  distressed  by  the  unfortunate  condition  of 


228       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

those  living  in  the  bottoms  were  Allan  Dorris  and  his 
wife,  safe  in  their  home  above  the  town.  The  people 
seemed  so  fearful  that  the  rain  would  never  cease  that 
they  neglected  to  get  sick,  and  Dr.  Doi-ris  would  have 
greatly  enjoyed  the  uninterrupted  days  he  was  permitted 
to  spend  with  his  pretty  wife  but  for  the  distress  around 
him. 

The  dripping  from  the  eaves  of  The  Locks  at  night  — 
he  thought  of  it  again  —  reminded  him  of  the  dripping 
from  the  coffin  of  a  body  packed  in  ice,  which  he  was 
commissioned  to  watch,  and  long  before  day  he  left  his 
bed  and  walked  the  floor.  His  wife  soon  joined  him, 
and  they  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  blank  darkness. 

"  How  it  reminds  me  of  the  first  night  I  came  here,"  he 
said.  "  But  what  a  different  man  I  am !  Then  I  cursed  my 
existence,  and  was  so  disturbed  in  mind  that  night  was  a 
season  of  terror.  I  dreaded  its  approach  as  heartily  then 
as  I  now  hail  it  as  a  season  of  repose,  and  every  day  I 
have  new  reason  to  rejoice  that  I  am  alive.  What  a 
fortunate  fellow  I  am  !  I  can  sleep  nine  hours  out  of  every 
night,  and  arise  every  morning  entirely  refreshed,  not  a 
day  older.  I  am  content  now  to  lie  down  at  night,  and 
let  the  world  wag,  or  quarrel,  or  do  whatever  it  likes,  for 
the  only  part  of  it  I  care  for  is  beside  me.  Sometimes  I 
waken,  and  forget  you  for  a  moment,  when  I  wonder  how 
I  ever  induced  such  sound  sleep  to  come  to  my  eyes ;  but 
when  I  remember  it  all,  I  feel  like  cheering,  and  go  off 
iflto  dreamland  again  with  the  comfort  of  a  healthy  child. 
It  is  a  wonderful  change,  and  you  are  responsible  for  it 
all ;  you  have  made  one  man  entirely  happy,  if  you  have 
accomplished  nothing  else." 

As  they  stood  by  the  window,  he  had  his  arms  around 
her,  and  when  she  looked  up  at  him  he  kissed  her  tenderly 
on  the  forehead. 


THE  RISE  IN  THE  RIVER.  220 

"  Our  marriage  has  brought  no  more  happiness  to  you 
than  it  has  to  me,"  she  answered.  "  Since  you  became 
my  husband,  I  have  known  only  content  and  gladness, 
except  when  I  become  childish  and  fear  you  are  sur 
rounded  by  some  grave  danger.  If  I  could  charge  you 
with  a  wish  I  could  think  of  nothing  to  ask." 

"Who  would  harm  me?    Who  would  dare?"  he  asked. 

His  wife  thought  to  herself,  as  she  looked  at  him,  that 
it  would  be  a  dangeroiis  undertaking  to  attempt  to  do 
him  an  injury.  There  were  few  men  his  equal  in  physical 
strength,  and  he  could  hold  her  out  at  arm's  length. 

"Danger  is  a  game  that  two  can  play  at,"  he  said,  and 
there  was  a  frown  on  his  face  so  fierce  as  to  indicate  that 
some  one  who  was  his  enemy  had  come  into  his  mind. 
"I  have  seen  the  day  when  I  would  have  allowed  almost 
any  one  the  privilege  of  taking  my  life,  if  it  would  have 
afforded  them  pleasure,  but  let  them  keep  out  of  my 
way  now!  The  tiger  fighting  for  her  whelps  would  not 
be  fiercer  than  I,  if  attacked.  I  have  more  to  live  for 
than  any  other  man  in  the  world,  and  I  would  fight,  not 
only  with  desperation,  but  with  skill  and  wickedness.  If 
any  one  wants  my  life,  let  him  see  that  he  does  not  lose 
his  own  in  attempting  to  take  it." 

Allan  Dorris  had  been  oppressed  with  a  vague  fear  ever 
since  his  marriage  that  his  long  period  of  rest  meant  a 
calamity  at  last,  though  he  had  always  tried  to  argue  the 

notion  out  of  his  wife's  mind.     He  had  often  felt  that 

• 

he  was  watched,  though  he  had  seen  nothing,  heard  noth 
ing,  to  warrant  this  belief.  He  could  not  explain  it  to 
himself ;  but  frequently  while  walking  about  the  town  he 
turned  his  head  in  quick  alarm,  and  looked  about  as  if 
expecting  an  attack.  Once  he  felt  so  ill  at  ease  at  night, 
so  thoroughly  convinced  that  something  was  wrong,  that 
he  left  his  wife  quietly  sleeping,  and  crawled  under  the 


230       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

trees  in  The  Locks'  yard  for  an  hour,  with  a  loaded  pistol 
in  his  hand.  But  he  had  seen  nothing,  heard  nothing, 
and  his  own  actions  were  so  much  like  the  presence  he 
half  expected  to  find,  that  he  was  ashamed  of  them,  and 
laughed  at  his  fears. 

But  the  dark  night  and  the  cheerless  rain  brought  the 
old  dread  into  his  mind,  and  he  said  to  his  wife, — 

"We  are  all  surrounded  by  danger,  though  I  am  as 
exempt  from  it  as  other  men,  but  if  I  should  meet  with  an 
accident  some  time  —  I  take  many  long  rides  at  night,  and  I 
have  often  been  in  places  when  a  single  misstep  of  my  horse 
would  have  resulted  in  death  —  I  want  you  to  know  that 
your  husband  was  an  honorable  man.  I  have  my  faults, 
and  I  have  regrets ;  but  as  the  world  goes  I  am  an  honest 

o  *  o 

man.  Your  love  for  me,  which  is  as  pure  and  good  as  it 
can  be,  has  had  as  much  warrant  as  other  wives  have  for 
their  love.  It  was  never  intended  that  si  perfect  man  or 
woman  should  exist  on  this  earth,  as  a  reproach  to  all  the 
other  inhabitants,  and  I  have  my  faults;  but  I  have  as 
clear  a  conscience  as  it  was  intended  that  the  average  man 
should  have." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  his  wife  answered.  "  You  always 
impress  me  as  being  a  fair  man,  and  this  was  one  reason 
why  I  forget  myself  in  loving  you.  I  did  not  believe  you 
would  be  unjust  to  anyone;  surely  not  to  one  you 
loved." 

"I  believe  I  am  entitled  to  the  compliment  you  pay 
me,"  he  replied.  "  I  know  myself  so  well  that  a  compli 
ment  which  I  do  not  deserve  does  not  please  me ;  but  I 
deserve  the  good  opinion  you  have  just  expressed.  I  have 
known  people  whose  inclinations  were  usually  right;  but 
mine  were  usually  wrong  —  either  that,  or  I  have  been  so 
situated  that,  by  reason  of  hasty  conclusions,  duty  has 
always  been  a  task;  but  notwithstanding  this  I  have 


THE   KISE  IN  THE  EIVEK. 

always  tried  to  be  honest  and  fair  in  everything.  It  some 
times  happens  that  a  man  is  so  situated  that  if  he  would 
be  jiist  to  himself  he  must  be  unjust  to  others.  I  may 
have  been  in  that  situation,  and  there  may  be  those  who 
believe  that  I  have  wronged  them ;  but  I  am  sure  that  an 
honest  judge  would  acquit  me  of  blame.  I  have  often 
wanted  to  tell  you  my  brief  and  unimportant  history ;  but 
you  have  preferred  not  to  hear  it.  While  I  admire  you 
for  this  exhibition  of  trust  in  me,  I  have  often  wondered 
that  your  woman's  curiosity  did  not  covet  the  secret." 

"It  is  not  a  secret  since  you  offer  to  tell  it  to  me,"  she 
replied.  "  But  I  prefer  not  to  know  it  now.  You  once  said 
to  me  that  every  life  has  its  sorrow ;  mine  is  the  belief 
that  I  know  what  your  history  is ;  but  I  prefer  to  hope 
that  I  am  wrong  rather  than  know  my  conjecture  is 
right." 

He  looked  at  her  with  incredulity,  and  was  about  to 
inquire  what  she  knew,  when  she  continued : 

"  You  never  speak  to  me  that  I  do  not  get  a  scrap  of 
your  past  history ;  I  read  you  as  easily  as  I  read  a  book. 
But  I  knew  it  when  I  became  your  wife,  and  I  think  less 
of  it  now  than  ever ;  you  are  so  kind  to  me  that  I  think  I 
shall  forget  it  altogether  in  time.  It  is  scarcely  a  sorrow ; 
rather  a  regret,  as  I  regret  during  my  present  happy 
life  that  I  am  growing  old.  Sometimes  I  think  I  love 
you  all  the  more  because  of  your  misfortune,  though  I 
never  think  of  it  when  I  am  with  you ;  it  is  only  when 
I  am  alone  that  it  occupies  my  mind." 

"  You  are  sure  that  you  have  not  made  it  worse  than  it 
is?" 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Who  was  in  the  right  ?  " 

"  You  were." 

"  That  much  is  true,  anyway,"  he  answered,  looking  out 


232  THE  MYSTERY  OF   THE  LOCKS. 

at  the  torrent  in  the  river,  which  the  approaching  day 
light  now  made  visible.  "I  formerly  had  a  habit  of 
talking  in  my  sleep ;  you  may  have  learned  something  in 
that  way." 

"A  great  deal,"  she  replied.     "I  learned  your  name." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him  he  seemed 
confused,  and  there  was  a  flush  of  mortification  in  his  face. 
He  picked  up  a  scrap  of  paper  and  pencil  which  were 
lying  on  a  table  near  them,  and  handing  them  to  her, 
said, — 

"  Write  it." 

Without  the  slightest  hesitation,  she  wrote  quickly  on 
the  paper,  and  handed  it  back  to  him.  He  looked  at  it 
with  a  queer  smile,  tore  up  the  scrap,  and  said,  — 

"  That  would  have  come  out  in  the  story  you  refused 
to  hear.  I  have  never  deceived  you  in  anything." 

"Except  in  this,"  she  answered,  putting  her  arms 
around  him.  "You  are  a  much  better  man  than  I  believed 
you  were  when  we  were  first  acquainted ;  you  have  de 
ceived  me  in  that.  My  married  life  could  not  be  happier 
than  it  is." 

"  I  do  not  take  much  credit  to  myself  that  we  are  con 
tent  as  husband  and  wife,"  he  replied.  "  I  think  the  fact 
that  we  are  mated  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it.  There 
are  a  great  many  worthy  people  —  for  the  world  is  full  of 
good  women,  if  not  of  good  men  —  who  li ve  in  the  great 
est  wretchedness ;  who  are  as  unhappy  in  their  married 
relations  as  we  are  happy.  I  have  known  excellent  men 
married  to  excellent  wives,  who  are  wretched,  as  I  have 
known  two  excellent  men  to  fail  as  partners  in  business. 
You  and  I  were  fortunate  in  our  alliance.  It  often  occurs 
to  me  that  Mrs.  Armsby  should  have  had  a  better  husband, 
poor  woman.  How  many  brave,  capable  men  there  are  in 
the  world  who  would  rejoice  in  the  possession  of  such  a 


THE   RISE   IN   THE   EIVEK.  233 

wife  ;  worthy,  bonest  men  who  made  a  mistake  only  in 
marrying  the  wrong  woman,  and  who  will  die  believing 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  worth  living  for,  as  I  be 
lieved  before  I  met  you.  Everyone  who  is  out  in  the 
world  a  great  deal  knows  such  men,  and  pities  them,  as 
I  do;  for  when  I  contrast  my  past  with  my  present,  I  re 
gret  that  others,  more  deserving  than  I,  cannot  enjoy  the 
contentment  which  love  brings.  You  and  I  are  not  phe 
nomenal  people  in  any  respect,  but  we  arc  man  and  wife 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term ;  and  others  might  enjoy 
the  peace  we  enjoy  were  they  equally  fortunate  in  their 
love  affairs.  It  is  a  grand  old  world  for  you  and  I,  and 
those  like  us,  but  it  is  a  hell  for  those  who  have  been 
coaxed  into  unsuitable  marriages  by  the  devil." 

"  There  is  as  much  bitterness  in  your  voice  now  as  there 
was  when  you  said  to  me  in  the  church  that  you  were  go 
ing  away  never  to  come  back,"  his  wife  said,  looking  at 
him  with  keen  apprehension. 

*  "  I  am  a  different  man  now  to  what  I  was  then,"  he 
replied,  with  his  old  good-nature.  "  Have  you  never  re 
marked  it?" 

"  Often  ;  every  time  I  hear  you  speak." 

"  I  find  that  there  are  splendid  people  even  in  Davy's 
Bend,  and  I  imagine  that  when  the  mind  is  not  tortured 
they  may  be  found  anywhere.  In  my  visits  to  the  homes 
of  Davy's  Bend,  I  hear  it  said  in  every  quaiter  that  surely 
the  neighbors  are  the  best  people  in  the  world,  and  their 
kindness  in  sickness  and  death  cause  me  to  believe  that  as 
a  rule  the  people  are  very  good,  unless  you  chain,  two  an 
tagonistic  spirits  together,  and  demand  that  they  be  con 
tent.  I  know  so  much  of  the  weakness  of  my  race — . 
because  it  happens  to  be  my  business  —  that  I  wonder 
they  are  as  industrious  and  honorable  as  I  find  them. 
This  never  occurred  to  me  before,  and  I  think  it  is  evidence 


234  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

that  I  am  a  changed  man ;  that  I  am  more  charitable  than 
I  ever  was  before,  and  better." 

They  both  looked  out  the  window  in  silence  again.  A 
misty  morning,  threatening  rain,  and  the  river  before 
them  like  a  sea. 

"  I  must  do  something  to  help  those  who  are  imprisoned 
in  their  homes  by  the  flood,"  Allan  Dorris  said,  as  if  a 
sight  of  the  river  had  suggested  it  to  him.  "  I  will  go 
down  where  bouts  are  to  be  had  presently,  and  row  over 
into  the  timber.  Do  you  see  that  line  of  trees  ?  " 

Below  the  town,  in  the  river  bend,  a  long  line  of  trees 
made  out  into  the  channel,  which  were  on  dry  land  in 
ordinary  times,  but  the  point  was  covered  now,  for  the 
flood  occupied  the  bottom  from  bluff  to  bluff.  He  pointed 
this  out,  and  when  his  wife  saw  the  place  he  referred  to, 
she  nodded  her  head. 

"  My  boat  will  be  carried  down  the  stream  by  the  strong 
current,  and  I  will  probably  enter  the  timber  there.  I 
will  wave  my  good-by  to  you  from  that  point." 

He  went  out  soon  after  to  prepare  for  the  trip,  and 
during  his  absence  his  wife  hurriedly  prepared  his  break 
fast  ;  and  when  he  came  back  he  wore  coat  and  boots  of 
rubber. 

"  What  a  wonderful  housekeeper  you  arc,"  he  said,  as 
he  sat  down  to  the  table.  "  No  difference  what  I  crave, 
you  supply  it  before  I  have  time  to  worry  because  of  the 
lack  of  it.  But  it  is  so  in  everything ;  I  never  want  to 
do  a  thing  but  that  I  find  you  are  of  the  same  mind.  It 
is  very  easy  to  spoil  a  boy,  but  I  think  the  girls  are  natu 
rally  so  good  that  they  turn  out  well  without  much 
attention.  You  had  no  mother  to  teach  you,  but  you 
took  charge  of  my  house  with  as  much  good  grace  and 
ease  as  though  you  had  been  driven  to  it  all  your  life.  I 
think  a  great  deal  more  of  your  sex  because  of  my  acquain- 


THE   RISE   IN   THE  RIVER.  235 

tance  with  you.  If  my  wife  is  not  the  most  wonderful 
woman  in  the  world,  I  shall  never  know  it." 

"  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  say  it  after  your  kind  remark," 
his  wife  replied,  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  want  you  to 
go  over  into  the  bottoms.  The  thought  of  it  fills  me  with 
dread,  though  I  know  you  ought  to  go." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  he  said  cheerfully.  "  I  may  be  able 
to  rescue  some  unfortunate  over  there,  and  there  is  noth 
ing  dangerous  in  the  journey.  I  shall  return  before  the 
night  comes  on,  —  no  fear  of  that ;  but  before  I  go  I  want 
to  tell  you  again  how  much  my  marriage  with  you  has 
done  for  me.  I  want  you  to  keep  it  in  your  mind  while  I 
am  away,  that  you  may  understand  why  I  am  glad  to  re 
turn.  Until  I  came  here  and  met  you,  I  was  as  discon 
tented  as  a  man  could  possibly  be,  and  I  am  very  grateful 
to  you.'  A  life  of  toil  and  misery  was  my  lot  until  you 
came  to  my  rescue,  and  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to 
me.  It  occurred  to  me  while  I  was  out  of  the  room  just 
now,  that  the  shadow  under  the  trees  is  very  much  like 
the  shadow  I  intended  to  penetrate  when  you  came  to  me 
that  dark  night  and  blessed  me.  Once  you  came  into  the 
room  where  I  was  lying  down,  after  returning  from  the 
country,  though  I  was  not  asleep  as  you  supposed.  The 
gentle  manner  in  which  you  touched  my  forehead  with 
your  lips;  that  was  love  —  I  have  thought  .about  it  a 
thousand  times  since,  and  been  thankful.  The  human 
body  I  despise,  because  of  my  familiarity  with  it ;  but  such 
a  love  as  yours  is  divine.  I  only  regret  that  it  is  not 
more  general.  Love  is  the  only  thing  in  life  worth  hav 
ing  ;  if  a  man  who  lacks  it  is  not  discontented,  he  is  like  an 

O  '  * 

idiot  who  is  always  laughing,  not  realizing  his  condition. 
Some  people  I  have  known  suggested  depravity  by  their 
general  appearance ;  you  think  of  your  own  faults  from 
looking  at  them,  and  feel  ashamed ;  but  it  makes  me  am- 


23G       THE  MYSTEHY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

bitious  to  look  at  you,  and  every  day  since  I  have  known 
you  I  have  been  a  better  man  than  I  was  the  day  before." 

He  had  finished  his  repast  by  this  time,  and  they  walked 
out  to  the  front  door  together,  arm  in  arm,  like  lovers. 

"  I  have  heard  it  said,"  he  continued,  as  he  tied  up  his 
rubber  boots  and  made  final  preparations  for  starting, 
"that  if  a  wife  is  too  good  to  her  husband,  he  will  finally 
come  to  dislike  her.  You  arc  too  good  to  me,  I  suppose, 
but  it  never  occurs  to  me  to  dislike  you  for  it ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  causes  me  to  resolve  to  be  worthy  of  your 
thoughtf  ulness.  It  will  do  me  good  to  go  into  the  shadow 
for  a  day  ;  I  will  appreciate  the  sunshine  all  the  more 
when  I  return.  But  if  I  should  not  return  —  if  an  acci 
dent  should  happen  to  me,  which  is  always  possible  any 
where  —  my  last  thought  would  be  thankfulness  for  the 
happiness  of  the  past  three  months." 

"  But  you  do  not  anticipate  danger?"  she  said,  grasping 
his  arm,  as  if  to  lead  him  back  into  the  house. 

" There  is  no  danger,"  he  replied.  "Even  if  my  boat 
should  fail  me,  I  could  swim  back  to  you  from  the  far 
thest  point,  for  I  love  you  so  much.  You  have  never  seen 
my  reserve  strength  in  action ;  if  a  possibility  of  being 
separated  from  you  should  present  itself,  I  imagine  I  should 
greatly  surprise  my  enemies.  Never  fear ;  I  shall  come 
back  in  good  time.  I  believe  that  should  I  get  killed,  my 
body  would  float  against  the  current  and  hug  the  bank  at 
the  point  nearest  The  Locks." 

He  kissed  her  quickly  and  hurried  away,  and  his  form 
was  soon  lost  in  the  bend  of  the  street. 

How  dark  it  was  under  the  trees  !  The  increasing  dull 
daylight  brightened  everything  save  the  darkness  under 
the  trees ;  nothing  could  relieve  that.  What  if  he  should 
go  into  it  never  to  return,  as  he  had  intended  the  night 
they  were  married !  No,  no,  no  ;  she  wrung  her  hands 


THE  RISE  IN   THE   RIVER.  237 

at  that  thought,  and  ran  towards  the  door,  as  if  intend 
ing  to  pursue  him  and  bring  him  back  before  he  could 
enter  it.  But  Allan  was  strong  and  trusty,  and  he 
would  come  back  to  laugh  at  her  childish  fears  as  she  took 
his  dripping  garments  at  the  close  of  the  day,  and  listened 
to  an  account  of  his  adventures,  —  no  fear  of  that. 

A  half  hour  later  she  saw  a  boat  with  a  single  rower 
put  out  from  the  town,  and  make  slow  headway  against 
the  strong  current  to  the  other  shore.  Was  he  going 
alone  ?  It  was  not  dangerous  ^  she  persuaded  herself  of 
that,  but  she  thought  it  must  be  very  lonesome  rowing 
about  in  such  a  flood ;  and  he  should  not  go  out  again, 
for  he  would  do  anything  she  wished,  and  she  would  ask 
it  as  a  favor. 

Why  had  she  neglected  to  think  of  this,  and  ask  him  to 
go  with  others?  But  it  was  too  late  now,  for  the 
rower  soon  reached  the  line  of  trees  he  had  pointed  out 
to  her  from  the  window,  waved  his  white  handkerchief, 
which  looked  like  a  signal  of  danger,  and  disappeared 
into  the  shadow. 


CHAPTER  XIX.    - 
MR.  WHITTLE  MAKES  A  COXFESSIOX. 

first  rays  of  the  bad  morning,  as  it  looked  in  at 
Mr.  Whittle's  window,  found  that  worthy  busily  en 
gaged  in  cleaning  and  scouring  his  gun.  It  was  not  yet 
his  bedtime,  for  of  late  he  spent  all  of  every  night,  in 
stead  of  part  of  it,  in  prowling  about  —  bent  on  mis 
chief,  he  said,  but  Silas  Davy  knew  that  Tug  had  a  fierce 
desire  to  protect  Allan  Dorris,  for  whom  he  had  taken 
such  a  strange  fancy,  from  harm;  and  that  night  after 
night,  whether  the  weather  was  good  or  bad,  his  friend 
kept  watch  iiround  The  Locks,  carrying  his  gun  in  readi 
ness  for  instant  use.  Silas  usually  kept  him  company 
until  he  became  sleepy,  and  knew  that  he  must  return  in 
order  to  keep  awake  and  attend  to  his  work  the  next  da}' ; 
but  Tug,  who  slept  during  the  day,  seldom  deserted  his 
post.  He  may  have  left  his  beat  occasionally  for  an  hour 
or  two,  but  only  to  creep  carefully  up  into  the  hills  back 
of  the  house,  where  he  crouched  and  listened  beside  the 
paths,  and  then  crept  back  again. 

A  good  many  times  he  walked  down  to  the  hotel, 
always  choosing  an  hour  when  lie  knew  Silas  would  be 
alone  in  the  kitchen,  on  which  occasions  he  never  failed 
to  take  a  shot  with  his  eyes  np  the  alleys,  and  into  all 
the  dark  places;  but  he  did  not  remain  long,  so  that 
almost  every  night,  when  Silas  went  to  bed,  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  if  the  shadow  should  attempt 
238 


MTt.  WHITTLE  MAKES   A  CONFESSION.  239 

to  harm  Allan  Dorris,  there  would  be  an  explosion  loud 
enough  to  alarm  the  town. 

Silas,  who  had  been  out  on  the  bottoms  the  day  before, 
came  in  late  in  the  evening,  and,  throwing  himself  on  the 
bed,  he  slept  so  soundly  that  when  Tug  appeared,  late  in 
the  morning,  from  one  of  his  vagrant  tramps,  he  was  not 
aroused.  And  there  he  lay  now,  in  his  clothes,  sound 
asleep,  his  face  as  innocent  as  a  child's,  as  his  mind 
was. 

As  Tug  scoured  away  on  the  gun,  rubbing  off  the  rust 
and  dirt,  he  occasionally  looied  at  Silas,  and  the  thought 
no  doubt  occurred  to  him,  that  if  there  ever  was  a  thor 
oughly  unselfish,  incapable,  kind-hearted  fellow,  there  he 
was,  on  the  bed,  asleep,  and  resting  well. 

"  He  '11  soon  be  awake,  though,"  Tug  said  aloud,  looking 
up  at  the  window,  and  noting  the  increasing  light.  "  He 
can't  sleep  when  it's  light  enough  for  him  to  work.  He 
has  been  driven  to  it  by  his  hard  masters  until  he  knows 
nothing  else,  and  he  has  a  habit  of  getting  up  at  daylight 
which  he  can  never  overcome.  Silas  was  ruined  by  too 
much  work ;  I  was  ruined  by  too  little  of  it,  I  suppose. 
Anyway,  I  'm  ruined  ;  nobody  disputes  that.  I  am  so  or 
nery  that  I  am  becoming  ashamed  of  myself." 

Mr.  "Whittle  meditated  a  moment,  and  then  putting 
down  his  gun  he  walked  over  to  a  piece  of  looking-glass, 
which  was  tacked  against  the  wall,  and  took  a  long  look 
at  himself.  The  inspection  was  apparently  unsatisfactory, 
for  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  reflection,  made  a  face  at  it, 
and  muttered  ill-humoredly  as  he  walked  back  to  his 
chair. 

"If  Davy  didn't  forget  so  easy,"  Mr.  Whittle  said 
aloud  again,  rubbing  away  on  the  gun-barrel,  "  what 
a  fine  man  he  would  be !  If  he  could  make  money  as 
easily  as  he  is  good-natured,  he  would  be  a  fine  fellow ; 


240  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

but  they  say  he  works  to  no  purpose,  and  must  have  some 
body  to  watch  him,  though  he  means  well,  —  everybody 
says  that.  If  Davy  should  be  told  to  turn  a  crank,  he 
would  do  it  better  than  anybody,  and  keep  at  it  longer ; 
but  the  men  who  make  money  not  only  work  hard,  but 
use  judgment,  and  Davy  lacks  judgment,  poor  fellow; 
they  all  say  that.  If  the  hotel  should  ketch  afire  he 
wouldn't  put  it  out  unless  somebody  told  him  to;  he 
wouldn't  think  of  it.  But  he  means  as  well  as  any  man 
in  America ;  I  can  cheerfully  say  that  for  him.  An  ordi 
nary  man  never  opens  his  mouth  without  saying  some 
thing  mean ;  but  if  ever  I  heard  Davy  say  a  mean  thing, 
or  knew  him  to  do  a  mean  thing,  may  I  become  a  preacher. 
Well,  the  talents  must  be  divided,  I  suppose ;  for  no  per 
son  seems  to  combine  any  two  of  them.  I  know  enough, 
but  somebody  else  has  the  honesty,  the  industry,  the 
decency,  etc.,  which  I  lack.  Unfortunately,  it  does  not 
follow  that  a  sensible  man  is  a  square  man  or  a  good  man. 
I'd  rather  trust  a  fool  for  honesty  than  a  man  with  a 
big  head,  any  day.  The  worst  crimes  I  have  ever  heard  of 
were  the  work  of  men  cursed  with  more  brains  than 
conscience.  I  thought  he  could  n't  sleep  long  after  the 
sun  was  up." 

Looking  over  at  his  sleeping  partner,  he  saw  that  he 
•was  becoming  uneasy,  and  soon  he  sat  up  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  and  looked  around  in  bewilderment  as  he  rubbed 
his  eyes. 

"Well,  rogue,  how  do  you  feel?"  Tug  inquired,  stop 
ping  his  scouring. 

"What  time  is  it  ?  n  Davy  inquired,  with  a  show  of  ex 
citement,  and  getting  on  his  feet  without  answering  the 
question. 

"I  should  say  it  was  five  o'clock,  Wednesday  morning," 
Tug  replied,  looking  out  at  the  window,  and  then  back 


MR.    WHITTLE  MAKES  A  CONFESSION.          241 

at  his  companion,  as  if  wondering  at  his  nervousness. 
"Why?" 

"  I  meant  to  remain  awake  to  tell  you  of  it  last  night," 
Silas  replied  hurriedly ;  "  but  I  was  so  tired,  from  rowing 
all  day,  that  I  dropped  off  to  sleep  soon  after  I  came  in. 
I  have  seen  the  shadow ! " 

Tag  sprang  up  from  the  low  chair  in  which  he  had 
been  sitting,  and  began  to  nervously  fumble  through  his 
pockets,  as  if  looking  for  ammunition. 

"  I  was  out  in  the  bottoms  with  Armsby,  yesterday," 
Davy  continued,  "and  twice  we  passed  a  man  rowing 
about  alone.  We  were  not  very  close  to  him,  bat  I  am 
sure  it  was  the  shadow,  and  that  he  meant  mischief.  Each 
time  when  we  encountered  him  he  rowed  away  rapidly, 
and  when  Armsby  hailed  him  he  paid  no  attention." 

Tug  was  much  concerned  over  this  news,  for,  after  find 
ing  his  ammunition^  he  went  to  loading  his  gun  with  great 
vigor. 

"  Could  you  see  his  short  ear  ?  "  he  stopped  to  inquire, 
after  ramming  down  a  great  quantity  of  powder. 

"  No,  his  left  side  was  from  me,  but  I  am  sure  it  was 
the  same  man.  And  I  am  sure  that  the  boat  in  which  he 
rowed  was  the  same  one  you  took  the  little  woman  out  of. 
I  hurried  here  as  fast  as  I  could  to  tell  you,  but  when  I 
lay  down  on  the  bed  to  wait  for  you,  I  fell  asleep.  Armsby 
made  me  row  all  day  while  he  kept  a  look-out  for  ducks. 
I  am  sorry  I  fell  asleep." 

Silas  rubbed  his  sore  arms,  and  looked  very  meek,  but 
Tug  was  too  busy  making  arrangements  to  go  out  to 
notice  him. 

"  The  impudence  of  the  scoundrel,"  he  said,  as  he  poured 
in  the  shot.  "  I  never  thought  to  look  for  him  in  daylight. 
Which  way  did  he  go?" 

Tug  peered  into  the  tube  of  the  gun  with  his  big  eye, 


242  THE   MYSTERY   OF  THE   LOCKS. 

before  capping  it,  as  if  expecting  to  find  his  enemy  crouch 
ing  clown  in  the  powder,  but  finding  that  the  powder 
primed,  he  put  on  a  cap,  and  stood  ready  to  go  out. 

"  Into  the  woods,"  Silas  answered.  "  When  we  first 
met  him,  he  was  rowing  toward  town,  but  on  seeing  us 
he  turned  the  other  way.  That  was  about  noon,  and  just 
before  night  we  saw  him  again,  coming  toward  town  as 
before,  but  he  pulled  off  to  the  right  when  he  met  us,  and 
disappeai*ed  under  the  trees.  I  expected  you  in  every 
moment  when  I  fell  asleep,  or  I  would  have  gone  up  to 
The  Locks,  and  told  Allan  Dorris.  We  ought  to  tell  him 
about  this  man,  Tug.  His  appearance  here  so  regularly 
means  trouble.  Within  a  year  we  have  seen  him  a  dozen 
times,  and  each  time  he  has  been  lurking  around  Allan 
Dorris.  We  really  ought  to  do  something." 

In  the  emergency  Silas  did  what  he  had  done  a  hun 
dred  times  in  other  emergencies — he  said  that  something: 

*j  O 

should  be  done,  and  folded  his  hands. 

"  Ain't  I  trying  to  do  something  ?  "  his  companion  an 
swered  testily  "  Have  n't  I  tried  my  best  to  shoot  him  ? 
What  more  can  I  do  ?  But  he  has  only  been  here  seven 
times.  Here  is  the  record." 

He  handed  the  gun  over  to  Silas,  who  saw  for  the  first 
time  that  there  were  seven  notches  cut  in  the  stock,  the 
particularly  long  one  representing  the  time  that  Tug  had 
shot  at  the  shadow,  and  missed. 

The  men  had  talked  of  warning  Dorris  a  great  many 
times  before,  but  Tug  had  always  argued  that  it  was  un 
necessary;  that  it  would  only  render  him  nervous  and 
suspicious,  whereas  he  was  now  contented,  and  very  use 
ful  to  the  townspeople  and  his  young  wife.  Silas  had 
always  been  in  favor  of  putting  his  friend  on  his  guard 
against  an  enemy  who  seemed  to  come  and  go  with  the 
night,  but  Tug  had  stubbornly  held  out  against  it,  and  per- 


ME.  WHITTLE  MAKES   A   CONFESSION.          243 

haps  this  was  the  reason  he  guarded  The  Locks  so  faith 
fully.  Sometimes  he  would  only  hear  a  noise  in  the 
underbrush ;  at  other  times  he  saw  a  crouching  figure,  but 
before  deciding  to  fire  at  it,  it  would  disappear,  but  there 
was  always  something  to  convince  him  that  his  old  enemy 
was  still  occasionally  lurking  about  the  town.  A  few  times 
he  had  seen  him  openly,  as  has  been  narrated,  but  there 
was  always  something  in  the  way  of  the  accomplishment 
of  the  purpose  nearest  his  heart ;  the  only  purpose  of  his 
life.  He  did  not  know  himself  why  he  had  taken  such  an 
interest  in  Dorris,  nor  had  he  ever  attempted  to  explain 
it  to  Silas,  but  he  admired  the  man,  and  the  only  ambition 
he  had  ever  acknowledged  was  connected  with  the  safety 
of  the  pei-son  he  admired,  according  to  his  own  confession, 
next  to  Rum  and  Devilishness,  for  not  even  Davy  out 
ranked' the  owner  of  The  Locks  in  Tug's  callous  heart. 
And  Dorris  himself  was  not  more  pleased  when  his  wife 
was  praised  than  was  the  rusty  old  lawyer,  and  at  her  sug 
gestion  ho  had  worked  whenever  he  could  get  it  to  do 
during  the  winter  which  had  just  passed ;  at  copying, 
drawing  legal  papers,  and  at  keeping  books,  for  he  was 
competent  at  any  of  these  occupations.  It  is  probable 
that  had  she  asked  him  to  go  to  work  as  a  day  laborer  he 
would  have  consented,  for  she  was  kind  to  him  in  a  great 
many  ways,  and  often  invited  him  to  visit  The  Locks,  when 
he  appeared  looking  very  much  like  a  scarecrow,  the  result 
of  his  attempts  at  fixing  up,  and  using  his  great  eye,  after 
arriving,  to  look  around  for  refreshments,  for  he  was 
always  hungry.  Being  a  noted  character,  when  it  be 
came  known  that  he  had  "reformed,"  and  that  he 
was  patronized  by  the  Dorrises,  a  great  many  others 
took  pains  to  patronize  him,  and  give  him  work  of 
the  kind  he  was  willing  to  do,  for  he  was  still  very  par 
ticular  in  this  respect.  When  at  The  Locks,  if  he  threat- 


244  THE  MYSTEKY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

ened  to  drink  too  much,  Mrs.  Dorris  took  his  glass  and 
kept  it,  although  her  husband  was  usually  in  favor  of 
"turning  him  on,"  as  Tug  expressed  it,  for  he  was  very 
amusing  when  a  little  tipsy,  and  kept  them  in  continued 
laughter  by  his  dignified  oddity. 

"  I  will  tell  him  to-day,"  Tug  said,  taking  the  gun  into 
his  own  hands  again.  "  He  must  not  go  into  the  bottoms 
unless  accompanied  by  a  party,  and  as  he  hasn't  been 
over  yet,  he  may  take  it  into  his  head  to  go  to-day.  I 
will  tell  him  in  an  hour;  he  won't  be  up  before  that 
time." 

"Do  you  know,  Tug,"  Silas  said,  "what  I  think  of 
you?" 

"  Well,  out  with  it.    Let 's  have  it." 

"I  think  you  are  a  better  man  than  you  pretend." 

"It 's  a  lie ! "  his  companion  replied  fiercely,  hitting  the 
table  a  hard  blow  with  his  clenched  fist.  "  It 's  a  lie !  " 

"  I  have  often  thought  it  was  very  much  to  your  credit 
that  you  took  such  an  interest  in  a  hunted  man,"  Davy 
said,  "  who  is  shadowed  by  a  cowardly  enemy,  but  per 
haps  I  am  mistaken  —  I  usually  am  ;  it 's  not  important." 

Tug  hung  his  head  in  mortification  at  this  suggestion, 
and  for  once  in  his  life  neglected  to  be  indifferent  and 
dignified  at  the  same  time,  which  was  possible  with  him, 
if  with  no  one  else. 

"  Whoever  accuses  me  of  being  a  good  man,"  he  said 
finally,  "  wrongs  me.  When  I  made  the  discovery  a  good 
many  years  ago  that  I  could  never  hope  to  become  any 
thing,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  distinguisli  myself  for 
sliiftlessness.  I  despise  a  common  man,  therefore  I  am 
an  uncommonly  proficient  loafer.  I  am  better  known  in 
this  town  than  some  of  your  respectable  men,  and  I  don't 
have  to  work  so  hard.  There  are  men  here,  and  plenty 
of  them,  who  have  worked  all  their  lives,  and  who  have 


MR.   WHITTLE  MAKES   A  CONFESSION.          245 

no  more  than  I  have,  which  is  nothing.  They  expect 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  future  for  them,  but 
I  have  sense  enough  to  know  there  is  nothing  very 
great  in  the  future  for  any  of  us,  therefore  I  live  as  my 
fancy  dictates.  I  am  a  natural-born  vagrant ;  most  of  us 
are,  but  most  of  us  do  not  say  so.  I  despise  five-cent 
respectability,  therefore  I  am  a  dollar  vagrant,  and  will 
pass  for  that  anywhere.  I  had  enough  of  good  people 
when  I  was  married  to  one  of  them ;  my  wife  was  a  Good 
Woman." 

"  I  hope  I  have  n't  offended  you,"  the  meek  little  man 
said,  looking  at  his  fierce  companion  in  alarm.  "  I  did  n't 
mean  any  disrespect." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  take  it  back,"  Tug  retorted. 
"  You  've  gone  too  far.  It 's  all  right ;  but  let  me  tell 
you  the  truth  for  once  in  my  life  —  I  believe  I  never  did 
before.  I  expect  it  will  set  me  to  coughing,  but  I  will 
try  it.  My  wife  has  n't  a  relative  in  the  world  that  I 
know  of ;  certainly  I  never  met  any  of  them.  The  only 
objection  I  have  to  her  is  that  she  is  Good.  She  is  so 
Good  that  she  is  a  bore ;  goodness  is  a  fault,  and  a  grave 
one  with  her.  She  could  n't  possibly  be  more  disagree 
able  than  she  is,  and  her  fault  is,  she  is  Good.  When 
there  is  a  dry  spell,  she  wants  to  get  up  a  rain,  and 
whether  it  rains  or  not,  you  are  expected  to  give  her 
credit  for  philanthropy.  When  it  is  too  cold,  she  moans 
about  the  poor  people  who  are  suffering,  and  those  who 
are  around  her  must  accept  this  as  noble,  or  be  called 
wicked,  or  heartless,  or  something  else.  She  even  has  a 
Good  way  of  gossiping  about  people,  and  I  despise  her 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  she  is  Good.  I  can't 
tolerate  her ;  she  makes  my  feet  cold." 

Tug  had  uttered  the  word  good  in  each  instance  like 
an  oath,  and  Dayy  cowered  under  his  cold  stare  as  though 


246  THE  MYSTERY   OF   THE  LOCKS. 

fearing  he  might  be  good,  and  was  about  to  be  accused 
of  it. 

"Everything  she  does  is  right;  everything  you  do  is 
wrong,  —  there  you  have  the  old  womern  in  a  mouthful," 
the  outraged  husband  continued.  "  She  is  always  jump 
ing  on  you  for  not  being  Good,  and  for  your  refusal  to  see 
goodness  in  her ;  and  no  one  around  her  sees  a  moment's 
peace,  for  she  badgers  them  to  death  for  their  neglect  to 
rid  the  earth  of  sin,  or  some  other  trifling  matter  like 
that.  She  neglects  herself  in  the  most  shameful  manner 
to  moan  about  Rampant  Rum,  or  the  Vitality  of  Vice,  for 
I  never  saw  her  ears  clean,  and  if  ever  you  find  her  with 
clean  finger-nails,  look  cut  for  the  pigs,  for  they  will  fly. 
If  she  is  a  Good  Woman,  then  hurrah  for  the  devil. 
The  fat,  the  lean,  the  long,  the  short,  the  ugly ;  they  go 
into  the  Good  business,  for  I  never  knew  anyone  who 
could  attract  attention  in  the  ordinary  way  to  engage  in 
it,  and  when  a  woman  becomes  too  fat  for  society,  or  too 
plain  to  be  admired,  she  goes  to  yelling  that  she  is  better 
than  anybody  else,  and  wants  everybody  to  behave, 
although  they  may  be  behaving  all  right  already.  The 
good-looking  and  amiable  ones  remain  at  home,  where 
they  belong,  and  I  admire  them  for  it.  Had  I  been  a 
rich  man,  the  old  womern  would  have  remained  with  me, 
and  called  that  good,  but  since  I  was  a  friendless  devil, 
and  a  worthless  vagabond,  she  left  me,  and  called  that 
good ;  I  hope  she  is  the  only  woman  of  that  kind  in  the 
world.  Look  how  she  treats  little  Ben  !  Does  she  act 
like  a  mother  toward  him  ?  Don't  I  have  to  take  all  the 
care  of  him,  and  look  after  him,  and  attend  to  his  bring 
ing  up  ?  Is  it  common  for  mothers  to  neglect  their  own 
ragged  children,  and  weep  over  fat  and  contented  people  ? 
That 's  what  she  does ;  therefore,  if  you  are  a  friend  of 
mine,  don't  call  me  Good" 


ME.   WHITTLE  MAKES   A  CONFESSION.          247 

Silas  was  not  taking  as  much  interest  in  the  recital  as 
he  would  have  clone  under  other  circumstances,  for  he 
was  thinking  of  Allan  Dorris ;  but  Tug  was  determined  to 
talk  about  the  "  old  womern." 

"  When  we  were  first  married,"  he  continued,  "  I  told 
her  some  sort  of  a  lie  about  myself ;  a  simple  sort  of  a 
yarn  about  nothing,  and  only  intended  to  earn  cheap 
glory  for  myself.  In  some  way  she  found  me  out,  for  she 
is  always  poking  her  nose  around  smelling  for  sin ;  and, 
until  I  could  stand  it  no  longer  and  finally  left  her,  she 
was  continually  asking  me  for  additional  particulars  of 
the  fictitious  incident  I  had  related.  I  say  she  found  me 
out ;  I  don't  know  it,  but  I  always  believed  she  did,  and 
that  she  only  asked  these  questions  to  hear  me  lie,  and 
gloat  over  her  own  virtue.  The  story  I  told  her  was 
about  saving  a  man's  life,  and  as  he  afterwards  came  to 
Davy's  Bend,  and  knew  the  old  womern,  I  felt  sure  that 
she  had  found  me  out.  After  that  she  asked  me  a 
thousand  questions  about  it,  and  every  time  I  invented 
a  new  lie  to  go  with  the  first  one.  Did  she  do  this 
because  she  was  Good?  You  bet  she  did  n't ;  she  did  it 
to  convince  herself  that  she  was  Good,  and  that  I  was 
J3ad;  but  I  tell  you  that,  average  me  up,  I  am  as  good 
as  she  is,  and  I  am  perfectly  worthless." 

Picking  up  a  rickety  chair  which  stood  nea'r  him,  Mr. 
Whittle  smashed  it  to  pieces  on  the  floor,  after  a  tremen 
dous  pounding  and  racket,  which  was  one  of  his  ways  of 
expressing  anger. 

Silas  was  very  much  impressed  by  this  ferocious  pro 
ceeding,  and  looked  on  in  meek  astonishment  until  his 
companion  was  seated  again. 

"Isn't  it  time  for  you  to  go  to  The  Locks?"  he  asked. 

"  Sure  enough,"  Tug  said.  "  I  am  going  up  there  this 
morning.  I  '11  go  now.'' 


248  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Without  further  words,  he  picked  up  his  gun,  and 
started  out,  going  over  the  hills  to  avoid  the  frequented 
streets.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  make  a  full  breast 
of  the  story,  so  he  walked  along  leisurely,  thinking  that 
he  had  a  genuine  surprise  in  store  for  his  friend. 

Ai-riving  at  The  Locks'  gate,  he  blew  the  whistle,  which 
was  always  looking  out  into  Dorris'  room  like  an  eye,  and 
waited  for  an  answer.  It  came  soon  after ;  the  cheerful 
voice  of  Annie  Dorris,  inquiring  what  was  wanted. 

"  It  "s  me,  —  Tug,"  he  answered,  "  I  want  to  see  Dr. 
Dorris." 

"  He  left  an  hour  ago,  to  go  over  into  the  bottoms," 
was  the  reply.  "Anything  urgent?" 

"Oh,  no,"  the  man  replied,  as  he  swallowed  a  great 
lump  which  came  up  into  his  throat.  "Nothing  urgent; 
I  only  wanted  him  to  pull  a  tooth." 

With  long  strides  at  first,  Tug  started  for  the  river, 
but  after  he  was  out  of  sight  from  The  Locks,  he  ran  like 
a  man  pursued,  and  arriving  at  the  place  where  the  ferry 
was  tied  up,  making  steam  for  the  day's  work,  he  seized 
the  first  boat  within  his  reach,  and  pushed  off  into  the 
stream.  The  owner  of  it  called  to  him  to  come  back,  as 
he  wanted  the  boat  himself ;  but  Tug  paid  no  attention, 
except  to  row  the  harder,  and  soon  disappeared  under  the 
trees. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  SEAECH  IN  THE  WOODS. 

ROM  noon  until  twilight  Annie  Dorris  watched  the 
-JL  point  on  the  other  shore  of  the  river,  where  her 
husband  had  promised  to  wave  the  signal  of  his  return 
long  before  nightfall,  but  nothing  did  she  see  save  the 
floating  debris  of  the  flood,  which  looked  like  tired  trav 
ellers  hurrying  forward  to  find  a  night's  shelter. 

Great -trees  came  floating  down,  with  their  arms  out 
stretched  as  if  for  help,  and  occasionally  these  disappeared 
in  the  angry  water,  as  human  floaters  might  disappear 
after  giving  up  in  despair,  believing  it  to  be  impossible  to 
reach  the  shore. 

Boats  carrying  parties  of  men  came  back,  one  by  one, 
to  the  town,  as  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and  the  ferry 
came  in  later  in  the  evening,  panting  like  a  thing  of  life 
after  its  hard  day's  work;  but  no  boat  with  a  single, 
strong  rower  appeared  to  cheer  the  gaze  of  the  faithful 
watcher. 

Everything  seemed  to  be  hurrying  away  from  her,  and 
from  Davy's  Bend,  and  from  the  gathering  darkness  under 
the  trees,  save  the  returning  boats,  and  she  thought  their 
occupants  appeared  to  be  anxious  to  reach  their  own 
homes,  and  tell  of  some  horror  in  the  woods.  Perhaps 
some  of  the  rowers  had  a  message  to  be  delivered  at  The 
Locks ;  and  when  they  did  not  come,  the  fear  found  its 
way  to  her  throbbing  heart  that  the  news  was  dreadful, 

219 


250  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

and  that  they  delayed  until  they  could  muster  up  more 
courage. 

While  it  was  yet  light  on  the  water,  an  ugly  night-shade 
collected  under  the  trees  where  her  husband's  boat  had 
disappeared,  reaching  out  with  long  arms,  to  capture  those 
in  the  boats,  who  were  hurrying  away  from  it,  —  a  black 
monster  it  seemed,  fat  with  prey,  watching  the  town  with 
stealthy  care  until  its  people  were  sleeping  after  the  day's 
work,  and  unsuspicious  of  attack. 

As  Annie  Dorris  watched  this  black  shadow  grow 
larger  and  larger,  and  become  so  bold  as  to  approach  still 
nearer  to  the  town,  it  seemed  to  her  that  no  one  within  it 
could  ever  escape;  and  though  an  occasional  boat  did 
come  out,  it  hurried  toward  the  town  rapidly,  as  if  in 
fright,  and  this  encouraged  her  to  hope  that  her  husband 
had  been  delayed  in  some  way,  and  would  safely  return, 
with  wonderful  adventures  to  relate.  So  she  kept  up  the 
vigil,  and  saw  the  shadow  grow  blacker  as  the  afternoon 
became  night. 

When  it  was  too  dark  to  see  even  the  river,  Annie  Dor 
ris  stood  looking  out  into  the  night,  hoping  that  her  hus 
band  had  returned  another  way,  and  that  his  footstep 
would  soon  be  heard  on  the  stair ;  for  she  could  think  of 
no  danger  that  could  befall  him,  since  rowing  in  the  flood 
was  safe,  in  spite  of  the  strong  current.  Once  she  heard 
a  light  step  on  the  stair,  and  she  was  sure  that  it  was  her 
husband  coming  up  to  surprise  her,  and  there  was  a  pause 
of  long  duration  on  the  landing;  but  when  she  threw 
open  the  door  in  joyful  expectation,  the  quiet  darkness 
looked  at  her  in  pity.  More  than  once  the  footstep  on 
the  stair  was  heard  by  the  anxious  and  terrified  wife,  and 
more  than  once  she  hurried  to  the  door  to  look  into  the 
hall ;  but  hope  seemed  to  be  leaving  the  house,  and  she 
imagined  she  heard  it  in  the  lower  hall,  hurrying  away. 


THE  SEARCH  IN  THE   WOODS.  251 

Returning  to  the  window,  she  saw  such  fearful  phan 
toms  in  the  darkness  that  she  ran,  bareheaded,  into  the 
street,  and  up  the  hill  to  her  father's  house. 

"  Annie !  "  Thompson  Benton  said,  as  she  ran  into  his 
room  with  starting  eyes  and  dishevelled  hair.  "  Annie, 
what  has  happened  ?  " 

"Oh,  father,"  she  replied,  bursting  into  tears,  "my 
husband  has  not  returned  from  the  bottoms !  " 

Thompson  Benton  had  been  expecting  a  calamity  to 
befall  Allan  Dorris ;  for,  while  he  had  grown  to  honestly 
admire  him,  there  was  always  something  in  his  manner 
which  indicated  that  he  was  in  danger.  Perhaps  this  sus 
picious  dread  grew  out  of  the  keen  relish  with  which  Allan 
Dorris  enjoyed  his  home ;  as  if  every  day  were  to  be  his 
last.  It  may  have  been  the  result  of  the  general  belief 
that  he  remained  in  the  town  to  hide  away  from  malicious 
enemies,  or  knowledge  of  the  pathetic  sadness  which 
always  distinguished  his  manner;  but,  whatever  it  was, 
Thompson  Benton  put  on  his  coat  and  boots,  which  he 
had  just  taken  off,  precisely  as  a  man  might  do  who  had 
been  summoned  on  a  long-expected  errand.  He  had  no 
explanations  of  the  absence  to  offer  to  the  weeping  wife, 
but  became  grave  at  once,  and  made  his  preparations  to 
go  out  in  nervous  haste.  So,  without  speaking  an  encour 
aging  word  to  his  daughter,  who  had  sunk  down  on  her 
knees  beside  her  father's  chair,  he  left  the  house  and  hur 
ried  down  to  the  town. 

"With  long  strides  he  reached  the  river's  brink,  where 
a  number  of  boats  were  tied,  and  spoke  to  a  few  trusty 
men  who  were  there,  some  of  whom  at  once  put  oars  into 
two  of  the  boats,  while  others  hurried  back  into  the  town 
after  lanterns  and  torches. 

While  they  were  gone  Thompson  Benton  walked  up 
and  down  the  bank,  pausing  frequently  to  look  toward 


252  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

the  woods,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
those  who  looked  at  him  curiously  for  an  explanation ;  for 
the  absence  of  this  grim  old  man  from  his  home  at  night 
was  important ;  it  was  particularly  important  now,  since 
it  was  known  that  he  was  only  waiting  for  the  return  of 
the  men  with  the  torches,  to  go  over  into  the  bottoms. 

The  news  spread  rapidly  that  something  unusual  was  in 
the  air,  and  when  the  two  boats,  rowed  by  four  men  each, 
pushed  out  into  the  stream,  half  of  the  town  was  left  on 
the  bank  to  talk  of  their  mission  in  low  whispers,  and  hope 
that  Allan  Dorris  would  be  found  safe  and  well. 

Among  those  who  watched  the  lights  in  the  boats  as 

o  o 

they  were  rowed  away  and  finally  disappeared  under  the 
trees,  was  Silas  Davy,  who  felt  that  his  neglect  to  warn 
Allan  Dorris  of  the  shadow  which  followed  him  so  per 
sistently  had  resulted  in  a  tragedy  at  last.  The  departure 
of  the  men  at  that  hour  to  look  for  him,  and  the  prepara 
tions  they  had  made  for  the  search,  were  dreadfully  sig 
nificant,  —  there  could  be  no  mistake  of  that ;  and  Silas 
wandered  along  the  shore  for  an  hour,  hoping  to  see  the 
boats  return,  and  hear  the  men  talking  cheerfully  on  the 
water,  indicating  that  his  friend  had  been  found.  But 
the  longer  he  watched  the  woods,  the  darker  they  became, 
and  the  less  prospect  there  seemed  to  be  that  the  lights  the 
men  had  carried  would  ever  reappear,  so  he  resolved  to 
walk  up  to  The  Locks,  hoping  to  find  Dorris  there,  and  be 
the  first  to  give  the  news  to  the  town.  But  at  the  gate 
he  met  Mrs.  Wedge,  who  anxiously  asked  him  for  infor 
mation  of  the  missing  man ;  there  was  nothing  cheerful 
in  her  pale,  anxious  face,  nor  in  the  stillness  which  hung 
about  the  place  like  a  pall. 

Silas  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  there  was  so 
little  hope  in  the  town  that  he  had  come  there  for  encour 
agement.  He  then  told  her  in  a  whisper  of  the  departure 


THE  SEARCH  IK  THE  WOODS.  253 

of  the  men  in  the  boats,  and  of  their  carrying  lanterns  and 
torches,  but  Mrs.  Wedge  did  not  give  him  the  encourage 
ment  he  expected,  for  she  put  her  hands  to  her  face,  and 
Silas  was  certain  that  she  was  crying.  When  she  had  re 
covered  her  composure,  she  motioned  the  little  man  to 
follow  her,  and  they  walked  together  up  the  broad  walk, 
and  up  the  stone  steps  until  they  entered  the  door.  There 
were  no  lights  in  the  house,  and  the  great  mass  of  stone 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  darkness  from  the  woods. 
When  they  were  on  the  inside,  Mrs.  Wedge  carefully 
closed  the  door,  and  said  to  him  softly,  — 

"  Listen ! " 

A  timid  step  on  the  stair,,  going  up  and  coming  down  in 
unceasing  monotony.  Occasionally  it  stopped  on  going 
up,  as  if  it  were  of  no  use  to  look  again ;  on  coming  down, 
as  if  fearing  some  corner  had  been  overlooked  in  the 
search,  but  it  soon  went  on  again,  up  and  down  the  stair, 
into  the  room  which  was  sacred  to  the  empty  cradle,  and 
out  of  it  again,  — the  step  on  the  stair  which  always  gave 
warning  of  trouble.  Once  it  came  so  near  them  that  Silas 

O 

half  expected,  as  he  stood  trembling  in  the  darkness,  that 
the  ghost  of  poor  Helen  would  lay  hands  on  him,  and  in 
quire  in  pitiful  tones  for  the  little  girl  who  seemed  to  be 
lost  in  the  house.  But  it  passed  by,  and  wearily  ascended 
the  stairs,  only  to  come  wearily  down  again  after  a  short 
absence  in  the  room  where  the  light  and  the  life  had  gone 
out. 

Mrs.  Wedge  led  Silas  back  to  the  gate,  and,  after  cry 
ing  softly  to  herself  awhile,  said  to  him  in  a  voice. so  agi 
tated  that  he  could  scarcely  understand  her,  — 

"  It  has  not  been  heard  before  since  they  were  married. 
I  had  hoped  that  poor  Helen  had  found  rest  at  last,  but 
her  footstep  on  the  stair  this  night  means  —  I  won't  say 
the  word !  It  might  be  carried  by  some  evil  spirit  to  his 


254  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

wife.     The  poor  girl  is  at  her  father's,  and  I  am  afraid  to 
look  at  her.     O  Annie,  Annie ! " 

Meanwhile  the  boats  pursued  their  journey  into  the 
woods ;  a  man  in  the  bow  of  each  with  a  torch  to  direct 
the  rowers.  The  underbrush  was  submerged,  and  they 
made  fair  progress  toward  the  line  of  hills  opposite  the 
town,  though  they  drifted  about  a  good  deal,  for  some 
times  they  were  in  doubt  as  to  their  bearings,  as  there  was 
nothing  to  guide  them.  Occasionally  they  stopped  to  lis 
ten,  hoping  that  Dorris  had  disabled  his  boat,  and  was  safe 
in  some  of  the  trees,  but,  hearing  nothing,  they  hallooed 
themselves,  each  one  taking  his  turn  until  they  were  all 
hoarse.  But  the  rippling  water  laughed  with  joy  be 
cause  their  voices  sounded  dead  in  the  forest  lake,  and 
seemed  afraid  to  venture  out  into  the  damp,  noisome 
darkness. 

Finding  a  place  where  the  current  was  not  so  strong, 
they  pulled  to  a  point  which  they  believed  to  be  above  the 
town,  calling  "  Halloo  !  Halloo !  "  at  every  boat's  length ; 
but  the  devilish  gurgle  in  the  water  continued,  and  their 
voices  came  back  to  them,  like  hounds  ordered  to  enter  a 
dangerous  lair.  Occasionally  a  waterfowl  resting  for  the 
night  was  disturbed,  and  went  crashing  through  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  but  no  other  sound  came  to  them, 
and  as  the  hours  wore  away  they  looked  at  each  other  in 
grave  apprehension. 

A  few  times,  in  the  middle  of  clearings,  they  came  upon 
deserted  houses,  with  vagrant  water  pouring  in  at  the 
windows,  only  to  creep  out  at  other  windows  after  making 
a  search  in  the  rooms  for  lives  to  destroy.  But  most  of 
the  people  had  escaped  to  the  hills  with  their  farm  ani 
mals,  leaving  their  household  effects  to  be  covered  with 
the  reptiles  which  had  been  frightened  out  of  the  thickets 


THE  SEARCH  IN   THE  WOODS.  255 

and  tall  grass,  and  which  clung  to  whatever  offered  them 
safety.  Under  the  trees  they  frequently  found  drifts 
composed  of  household  furniture,  bridges,  fences,  out 
houses,  logs,  stumps,  and  what  not,  and  the  desolation 
which  reigned  supreme  in  that  dark,  damp  place  was  re 
lieved  but  little  by  the  glare  of  the  torches,  which  made 
the  men  look  like  pale-faced  spirits  rowing  about  in  an 
eternal  effort  to  escape. 

If  the  men  wearied  in  the  search,  a  look  at  the  earnest, 
gray-haired  old  man  in  the  largest  boat,  who  was  always 
straining  his  eyes  in  attempting  to  penetrate  the  darkness, 
revived  them,  and  they  floated  on,  pulling  to  the  right  or 
to  the  left,  as  Thompson  Benton  directed,  and  crying, 
"  Halloo  !  Halloo  ! "  in  tones  which  sounded  plaintive,  and 
sad,  and  hopeless.  Always  an  earnest  man,  Thompson 
Benton  had  never  before  been  as  earnest  as  he  was  this 
night,  and  he  had  called  "  Halloo !  Halloo ! "  so  frequently 
that  when  he  spoke  it  was  either  in  a  hoarse  voice,  or  in  a 
soft  whisper. 

At  the  lower  point  of  the  bend  in  the  hills  which  gave 
the  town  its  name,  a  sluggish  lake  was  found,  the  main 
current  striking  diagonally  across  the  river  to  shorten  the 
distance  in  its  hurry  to  do  mischief  below,  and  the  boats 
found  their  way  into  this.  While  floating  around  not  far 
from  the  base  of  the  hills,  those  who  were  in  the  smaller 
boat  suddenly  came  upon  a  gravestone,  the  top  of  which 
was  only  a  foot  out  of  water. 

"  We  are  floating  over  Hedgepath  graveyard,"  the  man 
who  was  in  front  carrying  the  torch  said  to  the  othei-s. 
The  stone  which  had  attracted  his  attention  seemed  to  be 
taller  than  the  others,  for  it  was  the  only  one  appearing 
above  the  surface ;  the  water  covered  everything  except 
this  rounded  piece  of  stone,  which  alone  remained  to  mark 
the  resting-place  of  the  dead,  providing  the  dead  had  not 


256       THE  MYSTERY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

been  seized  with  the  universal  desire  for  floating  off,  and 
gone  away  to  visit  graveyards  in  the  lower  country. 

He  caught  hold  of  the  stone  to  steady  the  boat,  and, 
throwing  his  light  upon  the  other  side  of  it,  read :  — 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  —  " 

The  name  in  whose  honor  the  slab  had  been  raised  was 
below  the  water,  and  the  man  put  his  hand  down  into  it 
to  read,  as  a  blind  man  reads  raised  letters. 

"  The  first  letter  is  A,"  he  said,  rubbing  the  face  of  the 
stone  with  his  fingers,  "  like  the  alphabet ;  and  the  next 
is  L." 

The  fellow  continued  rubbing  the  face  of  the  stone  with 
the  tips  of  his  fingers,  while  his  lips  moved  as  he  tried 
letter  after  letter,  and  gave  them  up. 

"  Hello  !  Another  L ! "  he  said  in  surprise,  at  last,  draw 
ing  up  his  hand  hurriedly  on  making  the  discovery,  and 
shaking  it  violently  to  throw  off  the  water,  but  there  re 
mained  on  his  wrist  a  sickening  scum,  which  he  hurriedly 
transferred  to  the  side  of  the  boat. 

"  I  '11  read  no  further,"  he  said,  with  a  frightened  look. 
'I'm  afraid  it  will  turn  out  to  be  Allan,  with  a  space 
and  a  bisj '  D  '  following  it." 

O  fJ 

The  torch-bearer  still  held  on  to  the  stone  while  the 
rowers  rested,  but  the  other  boat,  in  which  Thompson 
Benton  sat,  was  busy  a  short  distance  beyond  them  ; 
from  one  clump  of  debris  to  another,  as  if  he  only 
hoped  now  to  find  the  lifeless  body  of  the  one  he 
sought. 

"  Strange  people  are  buried  here,"  the  torch-bearer  said, 
speaking  softly  to  his  panting  companions,  while  they 
rested  from  their  hard  work.  "  Suicides,  and  those  who 
have  died  violent  deaths  ;  Iledgepath  is  devoted  to  them. 
I  've  heard  it  said  that  this  is  a  rough  neighborhood,  but 
the  best  of  their  dead  are  put  away  further  up  the  hill.  If 


THE  SEAECH  IN   THE   WOODS.  257 

the  flood  has  not  drowned  out  the  ghosts,  we  will  see  one 
to-night." 

The  suggestion  of  ghosts  was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  the 
rowers,  particularly  to  those  who  were  farthest  from  the 
torch,  for  they  looked  timidly  about  as  though  they  were 
likely  to  be  approached  fr'om  behind  by  spirits  riding  on 
headstones. 

"  There  is  a  road  running  along  the  edge  of  Iledgepath, 
leading  from  the  ferry  into  the  hills,"  the  torch-bearer 
said,  who  was  the  bravest  of  the  lot,  because  he  was 
directly  under  the  light,  "  and  those  who  have  travelled 
it  at  night  say  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  place  sit  on 
stumps  beside  the  road  and  want  to  argue  with  the 
passers-by.  One  fellow  who  was  hanged,  —  he  has  a  great 
deal  to  say  about  the  perjured  witnesses ;  and  another  who 
was  accused  of  poisoning  himself,  —  he  says  he  found  it  in 
his  coffee,  though  he  does  not  tell  Avho  put  it  there ;  and 
so  many  others  have  horrible  stories  to  tell  that  travellers 
usually  hurry  by  this  place  as  fast  as  they  can." 

It  was  not  a  cheerful  subject,  but  his  companions  lis 
tened  with  close  attention,  occasionally  casting  glances 
behind  them. 

"The  unknown  people  who  are  found  floating  in  the 
river ;  they  are  buried  here,  and  those  who  travel  the 
Hedgepath  road  at  night  say  these  offer  them  letters,  and 
ask  that  they  be  posted.  I  have  forgotten  who  it  was, 
but  somebody  told  me  that  he  received  one  of  these  letters 
in  his  own  hand,  and  mailed  it,  and  that  soon  after  one  of 
the  bodies  was  taken  up  by  friends  from  a  distance,  and 
carried  away." 

The  grim  joker  was  interrupted  by  a  hail  from  the  other 
boat,  and  the  men  dipped  their  oars  into  the  water,  and 
pulled  toward  it. 

Thompson  Benton  and  those  who  were  with  him  were 


258       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

looking  with  eager  eyes  at  a  boat  which  was  floating  a 
short  distance  beyond  them,  within  the  rays  of  their  torch, 
and  which  was  rising  and  falling  with  the  ripples,  with 
both  oars  hanging  helplessly  out  in  the  water.  The  men 
were  waiting  in  fear  for  their  companions  to  come  up  to 
keep  them  company  before  approaching  it,  and  when  the 
two  boats  were  side  by  side,  they  were  held  together,  and 
the  outside  oars  of  each  were  used  to  row  toward  the 
deserted  craft,  as  a  party  of  men  who  discover  a  suspicious 
object  in  a  strange  locality  might  move  toward  it  together. 

As  they  drew  nearer,  the  form  of  a  prostrate  man  was 
seen  — 

Dismiss  thy  husband  into  the  shadows  from  whence  he 
came,  O  pretty  wife,  for  he  is  murdered. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  lying  easily  on  his  back,  the 
rowers  found  Allan  Dorris,  dead  ;  his  eyes  closed  as  if  in 
disturbed  sleep,  and  his  face  upturned  to  the  heavens. 
His  right  hand  was  gripped  on  the  side  of  the  boat,  as  if 
his  last  wish  had  been  to  pull  himself  into  a  sitting  posture, 
and  look  toward  the  town  where  his  faithful  wife  was 
watching  for  his  return.  The  flash  of  the  torches  made 
the  face  look  ghastly  and  white,  and  there  was  a  stain  of 
blood  on  his  lips.  Those  who  looked  upon  the  face  saw 
in  it  an  expression  of  regret  to  die,  which  remained  with 
them  as  long  as  they  lived ;  they  spoke  of  it  tenderly  to 
their  children,  who  grew  up  and  gave  their  own  children 
descriptions  of  Allan  Dorris's  pitiful  face  as  he  lay  dead  in 
his  boat  on  the  night  when  the  waters  of  the  great  flood 
began  to  recede.  It  is  said  that  the  face  of  a  sorrowing 
man  looks  peaceful  in  death ;  it  may  be  equally  true  that 
death  stamps  unmistakable  regret  on  the  face  of  its  victim 
who  is  not  ready. 

O,  pitiless  Death,  you  might  have  spared  this  man,  who 
was  just  beginning,  and  taken  one  of  the  mourning  thou- 


THE  SEARCH   IN   THE   WOODS.  259 

sands  who  watch  for  you  through  the  night,  and  are  sad 
because  of  your  long  delay.  This  man  desired  so  much 
to  live  that  his  white  face  seems  to  say  now :  "  I  cannot 
die  ;  I  dread  it  —  Oh,  how  terrible  it  would  be  to  die  now  !  " 
And  his  eyes  are  wet  with  tears ;  a  touching  monument  of 
his  dread  of  thee  ! 

The  rough  men  reverently  uncovered  their  heads  as 
Thompson  Benton  looked  at  the  dead  man  in  stupefaction, 
but  when  he  had  recovered,  he  lifted  the  body  gently  up, 
and  made  a  hasty  examination.  Laying  it  down  again,  he 
looked  at  the  men,  and  said  in  atone  which  indicated  that 
he  had  long  expected  it,  — 

"  Shot  in  the  back." 

Lashing  their  boats  together,  the  rowers  ^pulled  back 
to  town  without  speaking  a  word;  that  containing  the 
body  of  Allan  Dorris  towing  behind,  the  pathetic  face  look 
ing  up  to  heaven,  as  if  asking  forgiveness.  The  stars  came 
out  as  the  rowers  pursued  their  journey  back  to  the  town, 
and  the  storm  was  over. 

Peace  to  the  pathetic  dust !  In  the  town  on  the  hill, 
where  the  twinkling  lights  mingle  with  the  stars,  waits  a 
weeping  woman  who  knew  Allan  Dorris  well ;  let  her 
opinion  of  the  dead  prevail,  and  not  that  of  the  gossiping 
winds  which  have  been  whispering  into  the  ears  of  the 
people. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

LITTLE  BEK 

IN  answer  to  a  note  requesting  his  presence  at  The 
Locks,  Silas  Davy  hurried  towards  that  part  of  the 
town  as  soon  as  he  found  relief  from  his  duties  at  the  hotel, 
regretting  as  he  went  along  that  Mr.  Whittle  was  not 
ahead  of  him  with  his  gun,  for  late  events  had  not 
been  of  a  cheerful  nature,  and  he  felt  the  need  of  better 
company  than  little  Ben,  who  dragged  his  weary  frame 
into  the  hotel  kitchen  a  few  minutes  before  Silas  started. 

Not  that  Silas  did  not  love  the  boy ;  nor  had  he  any 
objection  to  his  company  on  this  errand,  but  with  cries 
of  murder  in  the  air,  and  the  reports  of  guns,  he  thought 
he  would  have  preferred  a  stouter  companion  in  his  walk ; 
but  as  they  hurried  along,  little  Ben  keeping  up  with 
difficulty,  Silas  thought  that  perhaps  the  boy's  mild  good 
ness  would  keep  away  evil,  and  protect  them  both.  It 
occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  in  a  storm  of  thun 
der  and  lighting  he  should  like  to  keep  close  to  little  Ben, 
for  though  mankind  might  be  unjust  to  him,  the  monsters 
of  strength  would  pity  his  weakness,  and  strike  elsewhere, 
therefore  Silas  came  to  feel  quite  content  in  his  company. 

Of  the  shot  in  the  bottoms  which  had  created  so  much 
excitement  in  Davy's  Bend,  and  of  the  drifting  boat  which 
had  been  found  in  the  flood  by  Thompson  Benton  and 
his  men,  Silas  knew  nothing  except  as  he  heard  these 
matters  discussed  about  the  hotel.  Although  the  people 
went  to  The  Locks  in  crowds  the  day  after  the  body  was 
260 


'    LITTLE  BEN.  261 

found,  and  remained  there  from  early  in  the  morning 
until  late  at  night,  every  new  arrival  being  taken  into  one  of 
the  darkened  lower  rooms  to  look  at  the  dead  man,  Silas 
was  not  of  the  number.  He  was  afraid  to  look  at  his 
friend's  face,  fearing  he  could  see  in  it  an  accusation  of 
his  neglect  to  give  warning  of  the  shadow,  so  he  remained 
away,  and  went  about  his  duties  in  a  dreamy  way,  starting 
at  every  sound,  as  though  he  feared  that  the  people  had  at 
last  found  out  his  guilt,  and  had  come  to  accuse  him  for 
not  notifying  them  of  the  danger  of  which  he  had  been 
aware.  The  receipt  of  the  note  had  frightened  him,  too, 
and  he  felt  sure  that  when  be  entered  the  presence  of 
Annie  Dorris,  she  would  bretik  down,  and  inquire  why  he 
had  robbed  her  of  a  husband  in  his  usual  thoughtless  Avay. 
Perhaps  the  sight  of  little  Ben,  in  his  weakness  and  good 
ness,  would  plead  for  him,  so  he  picked  the  child  up,  and 
carried  him  on  the  way  as  far  as  his  own  weak  arms  would 
permit. 

Mrs.  Wedge  soon  appeared  in  answer  to  his  ring  at  The 
Locks  gate,  and  admitted  him  into  the  hall  where  he  had 
heard  the  step  on  the  stair  on  the  night  when  there  was 
alarm  because  of  Dorris's  absence  in  the  bottoms.  It  was 
dark  in  the  hall  now,  as  it  was  then,  and  while  Silas 
waited  for  Mrs.  Wedge  to  fasten  the  door  at  which  they 
had  entered,  he  listened  eagerly  for  the  footsteps,  and 
when  he  did  not  hear  them,  he  trembled  at  the  sound  of 
his  own  as  he  finally  went  up  the  stairs  behind  Mrs. 
Wedge,  followed  by  little  Ben. 

Going  up  to  the  door  leading  into  the  room  which  had 
been  occupied  by  his  friend,  Silas  was  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  Annie  Dorris,  who  was  seated  near  the  window 
where  the  shadow  had  twice  appeared.  There  was  a 
great  change  in  her  manner,  he  noticed  at  once ;  the  pretty 
lace,  which  had  formerly  always  carried  the  suspicion  of 


262  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

a  laugh,  was  now  distinguished  by  a  settled  grief,  and  it 
was  pale  and  haggard. 

Her  pale  face  was  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  dress  of 
mournful  black,  and  the  good  fellow  who  was  always 
trying  to  do  right,  but  who  was  always  in  doubt  as  to 
which  was  right  and  which  was  wrong,  would  have  given 
his  life  cheerfully  to  have  been  a  month  younger. 

While  Silas  stood  near  the  doorway,  changing  his  bat 
from  one  hand  to  the  other  in  confusion,  he  noticed  that 
tears  stai'ted  to  her  eyes. 

"  Please  don't  cry,"  Silas  said,  walking  towards  her. 
"  I  want  to  tell  you  the  guilty  part  I  have  taken  in  this 
dreadful  affair,  but  I  cannot  muster  up  the  courage  when 
there  are  tears  in  your  eyes.  Please  don't  cry." 

Annie  Dorris  bravely  wiped  her  tears  away  at  this  re 
quest,  and  looked  at  Silas  with  a  face  indicating  that  if 
his  presence  had  opened  her  wounds  afresh,  she  would  try 
and  conceal  it. 

"  I  am  oppressed  with  the  fear  that  I  am  to  blame  for 
this,"  he  continued,  in  desperate  haste,  "  and  I  must  tell 
you,  and  get  it  off  my  mind,  even  though  you  send  for  the 
sheriff  and  have  me  arrested;  I  cannot  contain  the  secret 
any  longer,  now  that  I  am  in  your  presence." 

Little  Ben  had  crawled  into  a  chair  on  entering  the 
room,  and  was  already  fast  asleep,  with  his  head  hanging 
on  his  breast,  dreaming,  let  us  hope,  of  kind  treatment, 
and  of  a  pleasant  home. 

"  Within  a  month  after  Allan  Dorris  came  to  Davy's 
Bend,"  Silas  said,  seating  himself  near  Mrs.  Dorris,  "Tug 
and  I  discovered  that  he  was  shadowed  by  some  one,  who 
came  and  went  at  night.  For  more  than  a  year,  —  until 
the  day  before  it  happened  —  we  saw  the  strange  man  at 
intervals,  but  Tug  said  it  would  unnecessarily  alarm  you 
both  to  know  it,  so  we  kept  it  to  ourselves.  I  am  sorry 


LITTLE  BEX.  263 

we  did  it,  but  we  thought  then  it  was  for  the  best.  I 
always  wanted  to  tell  you,  but  Tug,  who  worshipped  you 
both,  would  never  consent  to  it  until  the  morning  your 
husband  went  into  the  bottoms  alone.  When  he  came 
here,  and  found  that  he  had  gone,  he  followed  him,  and 
has  not  been  seen  since  The  day  before,  while  rowing 
in  the  bottoms,  I  met  the  shadow,  and  when  Tug  heard 
this,  he  came  at  once  to  warn  your  husband  not  to  venture 
out  alone." 

Annie  Dorris  made  no  reply.  Perhaps  this  was  no 
more  than  she  expected  from  Silas,  whom  she  had  sent 
for  to  question. 

"The  shot  which  once  came  in  at  that  window  was 
fired  by  Tug,"  Davy  continued,  pointing  to  the  pane 
which  had  been  broken  on  the  night  of  Allan  Dorris's 
marriage  to  Annie  Benton,  "  and  he  fired  at  the  shadow 
as  it  was  looking  in  at  your  husband.  For  more  than  a 
year  Tug  has  carried  a  gun,  and  has  tried  to  protect  you ; 
but  he  made  a  mistake  in  not  giving  warning  of  this 
stealthy  enemy.  Of  late  months  he  has  spent  his  nights 
in  walking  around  this  place,  trying  to  get  a  shot  at  the 
shadow ;  and  though  some  people  accuse  him  of  a  horri 
ble  crime,  because  of  his  absence  from  town,  he  is  really 
on  the  track  of  the  guilty  man,  and  will  return  to  prove 
it.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  to  see  you  in  mourn 
ing,  but  I  hope  you  believe  I  did  what  I  thought  was  for 
the  best." 

When  Silas  had  concluded,  they  were  both  silent  and 
thoughtful,  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  little  Ben  was  all 
the  sound  that  could  be  heard.  This  attracted  the  atten 
tion  of  Silas,  and  he  said,  respectfully,  — 

"  Would  you  mind  kissing  the  boy,  ma'am  ?  The  poor 
little  fellow  is  so  friendless,  and  has  such  a  hard  time  of 
it,  that  he  makes  my  heart  ache.  If  you  will  be  good 


264       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

enough,  I  will  tell  him  of  it,  and  he  will  always  remember 
it  gratefully.  Poor  chap!  I  don't  suppose  he  was  ever 
kissed  in  his  life." 

Annie  Dorris  went  over  to  the  sleeping  boy,  and,  after 
kissing  him,  as  had  been  requested,  picked  him  up,  and 
laid  him  down  on  a  lounge  which  stood  in  the  room. 

"  There  was  always  something  fierce  and  mysterious 
about  my  husband,"  Mrs.  Dorris  said,  after  a  time ;  "  but 
both  attracted  me  to  him.  I  could  not  help  it.  A  hun 
dred  times  he  has  offered  to  tell  me  his  story,  but  I  did 
not  care  to  hear  it ;  so  that  now  I  know  nothing  about 
him  except  that  he  was  the  most  worthy  gentleman  I  ever 
knew,  and  combined  all  those  qualities  which  my  heart 
craved.  I  knew  when  we  were  first  married  that  some 
such  result  as  this  was  probable,  but  I  could  not  resist 
him  ;  and  I  do  not  regret  it  now.  Three  months  of  such 
happiness  as  I  have  known  will  repay  me  for  future  years 
of  loneliness,  and  his  kindness  and  consideration  are  sweet 
memories,  which  console  me  even  now  while  my  grief  is 
so  fresh.  He  was  manly  and  honorable  with  me  in  every 
way;  and  the  fault,  if  there  has  been  a  fault,  was  my 
own.  I  am  sure  that  he  was  a  better  man  because  of  his 
misfortune.  I  believe  now  that  trouble  purifies  men,  and 
makes  them  better ;  and  the  more  I  studied  him  the  more 
I  was  convinced  that  there  were  few  like  him;  that  a 
trifling  thing  had  ruined  his  life,  and  that  there  were 
hundreds  of  men,  less  honorable,  who  were  more  fortu 
nate.  Even  now  I  do  not  care  to  know  more  of  him  than 
I  already  know.  I  fear  that  this  is  a  fault ;  but  I  knew 
him  better  than  anyone  else  in  the  world,  and  his  manner 
was  so  pathetic  at  times,  and  his  love  for  me  always  so 
pronounced,  that,  though  I  am  now  a  young  woman, 
I  expect  to  spend  my  life  in  doing  honor  to  a  noble 
memory." 


LITTLE   BEN.  265 

There  was  something  so  womanly  in  her  manner  that 
Silas  was  convinced  that  she  would  live  only  to  honor  the 
memory  of  his  friend.  There  was  inexpressible  sadness 
in  her  face,  but  there  was  also  strength,  and  capacity,  and 
love,  and  honor. 

"I  am  the  one  person  whose  good  opinion  he  cared 
for,"  she  said  again ;  "  and  I  forget  everything  except  his 
love  for  me,  and  his  manliness  in  everything.  It  is  no 
thing  to  me  what  he  was  away  from  here.  A  single  atom 
in  the  human  sea,  he  may  have  committed  a  wrong  while 
attempting  to  do  right,  and  came  here  a  penitent,  trying 
to  right  it;  but  as  I  knew  him  he  was  worthy  of  any 
woman's  profoundest  admiration,  and  he  shall  receive  it 
from  me  as  long  as  I  live.  The  stream  of  life  leads  up 
wards  to  heaven  against  a  strong  current,  and,  knowing 
myself,  I"  do  not  wonder  that  occasionally  the  people  for 
get,  and  float  down  with  the  tide.  He  has  told  me  that 
he  had  but  one  apology  to  make  to  any  one,  —  to  me,  for 
not  finding  me. sooner.  This  was  a  pretty  and  an  unde 
served  compliment ;  but  it  was  evident  that  in  his  own 
mind  he  did  not  feel  that  he  had  wronged  anyone,  and  I 
feel  so.  I  have  no  idle  regrets,  and  do  not  blame  you 
and  Tug.  On  the  contrary,  I  thank  you  both  for  your 
thoughtful  care.  When  Tug  returns,  as  I  am  sure  he  will, 
bring  him  here.  Who  has  not  wounded  their  best  friends 
in  trying  to  befriend  them  ?  Though  you  two  have 
grievously  wounded  me,  I  recognize  the  goodness  of  your 
motives,  and  feel  grateful." 

She  got  up  at  this,  and  started  toward  the  door,  motion 
ing  Silas  to  follow.  From  the  dark  hall  she  stepped 
through  the  door  which  Dorris  had  never  entered 
alive ;  but  he  had  been  carried  there  dead.  A  dim 
light  burned  near  the  door,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  air  —  a  taint  not  to  be  described,  but  to  be 


266  THE  JIYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

remembered  with  dread  —  which  made  Silas  think  of  a 
sepulchre. 

On  a  raised  platform,  in  the  room  to  which  the  steps  of 
poor  Helen  were  always  leading,  stood  a  metallic  burial 
case,  with  a  movable  lid  showing  the  face  under  glass. 
The  face  was  so  natural  that  Silas  thought  it  must  have 
been  preserved  in  some  manner,  for  his  friend  seemed  to 
be  quietly  sleeping,  and  he  could  not  realize  that  he  had 
been  dead  a  week.  Even  before  Silas  had  taken  his  hasty 
glance,  Annie  Dorris  had  knelt  beside  the  inanimate  clay 
of  her  husband,  and  he  thought  he  had  better  go  away  — 
he  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  do  —  and  leave  her. 
And  this  he  did,  only  stopping  at  the  door  to  see  a  picture 
which  he  never  forgot,  —  the  coffin,  the  sobbing  woman, 
the  dim  light,  and  the  gloomy  hangings  of  the  room. 

On  being  awakened,  little  Ben  shielded  his  face  with  his 
hands,  as  if  expecting  a  blow,  which  was  his  usual  greet 
ing  on  opening  his  eyes,  but,  recognizing  his  friend,  he 
contentedly  followed  him  down  the  stairs,  and  out  at  the 
iron  gate  into  the  street.  Davy  was  not  a  large  man  or 
a  strong  man,  but  little  Ben  found  it  difficult  to  follow 
him,  and  was  compelled  to  ask  his  friend  to  stop  and  rest 
before  they  reached  the  hotel.  When  they  finally  reached 
the  kitchen,  they  found  it  deserted,  and  Silas  hastily 
placed  meat  and  bread  before  the  boy.  This  he  devoured 
like  a  hungry  wolf,  and  Davy  wondered  that  such  a  little 
boy  had  so  much  room  under  his  jacket. 

"  They  don 't  feed  you  overly  well  at  the  farm,  do  they, 
Ben  ?  "  Silas  inquired. 

The  boy  had  turned  from  the  table,  and  was  sitting 
with  his  hands  clasped  around  his  knees,  and  his  bare  feet 
on  the  upper  round  of  the  chair.  After  looking  at  his 
companion  a  moment,  he  thoughtfully  shook  his  head. 

"You  work  hard  enough,  heaven " knows,"  Silas  said 


LITTLE   BEN.  267 

again,  in  a  tone  which  sounded  like  a  strong  man  pitying 
some  one  less  unfortunate,  but  there  was  little  difference 
between  the  two,  except  age,  for  there  was  every  reason 
to  believe  that  should  little  Ben's  cough  get  better,  he 
would  become  such  a  man  as  Silas  was. 

"I  do  all  I  can,"  little  Ben  answered,  "but  I  am  so 
weak  that  I  cannot  do  enough  to  satisfy  them.  I  haven't 
had  enough  sleep  in  years :  I  think  that  is  the  trouble 
with  me." 

That  cough,  little  Ben,  is  not  the  result  of  loss  of  sleep : 
you  must  have  contracted  that  in  going  out  to  work  in 
the  early  moi-ning,  illy  clad,  while  other  children  were 
asleep. 

"  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  something,  poor  fellow,"  Silas 
said,  "  which  will  please  you.  While  you  were  asleep  up 
at  The' Locks  to-night,  the  lady  kissed  you." 

Little  Ben  put  his  hand  apologetically  to  his  mouth, 
and  coughed  with  a  hoarse  bark  that  startled  Silas,  for  he 
noticed  that  the  cough  seemed  worse  every  time  the  boy 
came  to  town.  But  he  seemed  to  be  only  coughing  to 
avoid  crying,  for  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  not  going  to  cry,  Ben?"  Silas  said,  in  a 
voice  that  indicated  that  he  was  of  that  mind  himself. 

"I  think  not,  sir,"  the  boy  replied.  "When  I  first 
went  to  the  farm,  I  cried  so  much  that  I  think  that  the 
tears  have  all  left  me.  I  was  only  thinking  it  was  very 
kind  of  the  lady,  for  nobody  will  have  me  about  except 
you,  Mr.  Davy.  My  father  and  mother,  they  won't  have 
me  around,  and  I  am  in  Mr.  Quade's  way;  and  his  wife 
and  children  have  so  much  trouble  of  their  own  that 
they  cannot  pay  attention  to  me.  They  live  very  poorly, 
and  work  very  hard,  sir,  and  I  do  not  blame  them;  but  1 
often  regret  that  I  am  always  sick  and  tired,  and  that  no 
one  seems  to  care  for  me." 


268  THE  MYSTERY   OP  THE   LOCKS. 

Little  Ben  seemed  to  be  running  the  matter  over  in  bis 
mind,  for  he  was  silent  a  long  while.  In  rummaging 
among  his  recollections  he  found  nothing  pleasant,  appa 
rently,  for  when  he  turned  his  face  to  Silas  it  showed  the 
quivering  and  pathetic  distortion  which  precedes  an  open 
burst  of  grief. 

"  If  you  don't  care,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  I  will  cry ;  I 
can't  help  it,  since  you  told  me  about  the  lady." 

The  little  fellow  sobbed  aloud  at  the  recollection  of  his 
hard  life,  all  the  time  trying  to  control  himself,  and  wiping 
his  eyes  with  his  rough  sleeve.  He  was  such  a  picture  of 
helpless  grief  that  Silas  Davy  turned  his  back,  and  appeared 
to  be  rubbing  something  out  of  his  eyes ;  first  one  and 
then  the  other. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  am  not  able  to  help  you,  Ben,"  the  good 
fellow  said,  turning  toward  the  boy  again,  after  he  had  re 
covered  himself ;  "  but  I  am  of  so  little  consequence  that 
I  am  unable  to  help  anyone ;  I  cannot  help  myself  much. 
I  have  rather  a  hard  time  getting  along,  too,  and  I  am  a 
good  deal  like  you,  Ben,  for,  though  I  work  all  the  time,  I 
do  not  give  much  satisfaction." 

Little  Ben  looked  at  his  companion  curiously. 

"  I  thought  you  were  very  happy  here,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  with  plenty  to  eat  eveiy  day.  You  are  free  to  go  to  the 
cupboard  whenever  you  are  hungry,  but  often  I  am  un 
able  to  sleep  because  I  am  so  hungry.  You  never  go  to 
bed  feeling  that  way,  do  you,  Mr.  Davy  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  almost  smiling  at  the  boy's  idea  that 
anyone  who  had  plenty  to  eat  must  be  entirely  content ; 
"but  I  am  a  shiftless  sort  of  a  man,  and  I  don't  get  on 
very  well.  I  always  want  to  do  what  is  right  and  fair, 
but  somehow  I  don't  always  do  it ;  I  sometimes  think, 
though,  that  I  am  more  unjust  to  myself  than  to  anyone 
else.  It  causes  me  a  good  deal  of  regret  that  I  am  not  able 


LITTLE   BEX.  269 

to  help  such  as  you,  Ben.  If  I  were  able,  I  would  like  to 
buy  you  a  suit  of  clothes." 

"  Summer  is  coming  on,  sir,  and  these  will  do  very 
well,"  the  boy  replied. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  were  very  thinly  clad  last  Avinter,  Ben, 
and  oftentimes  I  could  not  sleep  from  thinking  of  how 
cold  you  were  when  out  in  the  fields  with  the  stock.  If 
ever  there  was  a  good  boy,  you  are  one,  Ben ;  but  you  are 
not  treated  half  so  well  as  the  bad  boys  I  know.  This 
is  what  worries  me,  as  hunger  worries  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  poor,  sir,"  little  Ben  said. 
"  Not  that  I  want  you  to  do  more  for  me  than  you  have 
done,  but  you  have  always  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I 
thought  you  must  be  rich  to  afford  it.  You  always  have 
something  for  me  when  I  come  to  town,  and  I  am  very 
thankful  to  you." 

What  a  friendless  child,  Davy  thought,  to  consider 
what  he  had  done  for  him  the  favor  of  a  rich  man !  A 
little  to  eat,  and  small  presents  on  holidays ;  he  had  been 
able  to  do  no  more  than  that ;  but,  since  no  one  else  was 
kind  to  the  boy,  these  were  magnificent  favors  in  his  eyes. 

"On  which  cheek  did  the  lady  kiss  me,  Mr.  Davy?"  the 
boy  inquired  later  in  the  night. 

"  On  this  one,"  Davy  replied,  touching  his  left  cheek 
with  his  finger  tips. 

"  I  was  thinking  it  was  that  one,"  little  Ben  continued. 
"  There  has  been  a  glow  in  it  ever  since  you  told  me.  I 
should  think  that  the  boys  who  have  mothers  who  do  not 
hate  them  are  very  happy.  Do  you  know  whether  they 
are,  Mr.  Davy?" 

"I  know  they  ought  to  be,"  he  said;  "but  some  of 
them  are  veiy  indifferent  to  their  mothers.  I  have  never 
had  any  experience  myself;  my  own  mother  died  before 
I  could  remember." 


270  THE   MYSTERY   OF   THE   LOCKS. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  little  Ben  continued,  "  that  if  I  were 
as  well  off  as  some  of  the  boys  I  see,  I  should  be  entirely 
satisfied.  I  must  start  home  soon,  or  I  will  not  get  there 
in  time  to  be  called  for  to-morrow's  work,  and  when  I 
creep  into  the  hay,  where  I  sleep  after  coming  to  see  you, 
I  intend  to  think  that  the  kiss  the  lady  gave  me  was  the 
kiss  of  my  mother,  and  that  she  does  not  hate  me  any 
more." 

For  such  as  you,  little  Ben,  there  must  be  a  heaven. 
The  men  who  are  strong  in  doubt,  as  well  as  in  the 
world's  battles,  come  to  that  conclusion  when  they  re 
member  that  there  can  be  no  other  reward  for  such  as 
you  and  Silas  Davy,  for  your  weakness  is  so  unfit  for  this 
life  that  it  must  be  a  burden  which  can  only  be  reckoned 
in  your  favor  in  the  Master's  house  where  there  are 
many  mansions. 

"  If  thei*e  were  not  so  many  happy  children,"  little  Ben 
said  again,  "  perhaps  I  should  not  mind  it  so  much,  but  I 
see  them  wherever  I  go,  and  I  cannot  understand  why  my 
lot  is  so  much  harder  than  theirs.  My  bones  ache  so,  and 
I  wTant  to  sleep  and  rest  so  much,  that  I  cannot  help  feel 
ing  regret ;  except  for  this  I  hope  I  would  be  happy  as 
you  are." 

Silas  Davy  is  anything  but  a  happy  man,  little  Ben, 
but,  being  a  good  man,  he  does  not  complain,  and  does  the 
best  he  can,  so  when  the  boy  soon  after  started  for  the 
farm,  and  Silas  walked  with  him  to  the  edge  of  the  town, 
he  pretended  to  be  very  well  satisfied  with  himself,  and 
with  everything  around  him.  Indeed,  he  was  almost  gay, 
but  it  was  only  mockery  to  encourage  his  unfortunate 
companion. 

"Next  Christmas,  Ben,"  Silas  said,  as  they  walked 
along,  "you  shall  have" — he  paused  a  moment  to  con 
sider  his  financial  possibilities —  "a  sled  from  the  store." 


LITTLE   BEX.  271 

"  That  is  too  much,"  Ben  replied,  with  hope  and  glad 
ness  in  his  voice.  "  A  sled  will  cost  a  great  deal,  for  the 
painting  and  striping  must  come  high.  I  would  like  to 
have  a  sled  more  than  anything  else,  but  I  am  afraid  you 
would  rob  yourself  in  buying  it.  I  am  afraid  that  is  too 
much,  Mr.  Davy." 

"  It  will  not  cost  as  much  as  you  expect,  and  I  can 
easily  save  the  money  between  this  and  Christmas,"  the 
good  fellow  replied.  "  I  have  always  wanted  to  do  it,  and 
I  will,  and  it  will  be  a  pleasure.  Remember,  Ben,  when 
you  feel  bad  off  in  future,  what  you  are  to  get  when  you 
come  to  see  me  Christmas  morning." 

"I  will  not  forget,  sir." 

"  When  you  own  the  sled,  and  I  have  had  the  pleasure 
of  giving  it  to  you,  we  will  feel  like  very  fortunate  fel 
lows,  w-on't  we,  Ben?"  Silas  said  again,  cheerfully,  as 
they  walked  along. 

"  We  shall  feel  as  though  we  are  getting  along  in  the 
world,  I  should  think,  Mr.  Davy,"  the  boy  replied. 

They  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  town  by  this  time, 
and  Davy  stopped  to  turn  back.  He  took  the  boy's  hand 
for  a  moment,  and  said,  — 

"  Remember  the  sled,  Ben.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  sir.     I  will  not  forget." 

Silas  had  scarcely  said  good  night  to  him  before  he  was 
lost  to  his  sight,  —  he  was  such  a  very  little  fellow. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 
TUG'S  RETURN. 

A  MONTH  had  passed  since  Allan  Dorris  was  found 
-£^~  floating  over  the  mounds  in  Hedgepath  graveyard, 
and  the  waters  having  gone  down  in  the  bottoms,  the  peo 
ple  were  busy  in  rescuing  their  homes  from  the  ooze  and 
black  mud  beneath  which  they  were  buried.  There  had 
been  so  much  destruction  in  the  bottoms,  and  so  much 
loss  of  trade  in  the  town,  that  the  people  were  all 
mourners  like  Annie  Dorris  and  Silas  Davy,  and  it  did 
not  seem  probable  that  any  of  them  would  ever  be  cheer 
ful  again. 

Silas  Davy  was  the  only  person  in  the  town,  save  Annie 
Dorris,  who  knew  the  secret  of  the  murder,  and  he  kept 
it  to  himself,  believing  that  Tug  was  on  the  trail  of  the 
culprit,  and  that  nothing  could  be  gained  by  making  the 
people  aware  of  the  mysterious  man  and  his  mysterious 
visits.  He  was  sure  that  Tug  would  return  finally,  when, 
if  he  saw  lit,  he  might  tell  the  people  what  he  knew ; 
otherwise  they  might  continue  their  conjectures,  which 
generally  implicated  Tug.  From  the  day  of  the  murder 
he  had  not  been  seen  in  the  town,  and  while  it  was  not 
openly  charged  that  he  had  fired  the  fatal  shot,  a  great 
many  talked  mysteriously  of  his  disappearance,  and 
believed  that  he  had  something  to  do  with  it,  for  about 
this  time  it  became  known  that  he  had  frequently  been 
seen  around  The  Locks  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  carry 
ing  a  gun. 

272 


TUG'S  RETURN.  273 

Silas  had  gone  down  to  the  old  house  by  the  river,  to 
see  if  the  bed  gave  any  signs  of  having  been  occupied, 
as  there  was  a  possibility  that  Tug  had  returned,  and  was 
ashamed  to  make  his  presence  known,  not  having  accom 
plished  his  purpose.  But  there  was  no  sign.  The  dust 
upon  everything  was  proof  enough  that  the  owner  was 
still  away,  and  Silas  was  preparing  to  blow  out  the  light, 
and  return  to  the  hotel,  when  his  friend  came  walking  in 
at  the  door ;  ragged,  dirty,  and  footsore,  and  a  picture  of 
poverty  and  woe,  but  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  it  was 
Tug,  for  he  carried  in  his  right  hand  the  old  musket  that 
had  so  long  been  his  constant  companion.  His  clothes 
hung  in  shreds  about  him,  and  bare  skin  appeared  at  his 
elbows  and  knees ;  his  tall  hat  was  so  crumpled  that  it 
looked  like  a  short  hat,  and  his  hair  and  whiskers  were 
long  and  unkempt.  There  were  bits  of  hay  and  twigs 
clinging  to  his  clothing,  and  Silas  was  sure  that  he  had 
been  sleeping  out  at  night,  and  creeping  through  the  brush 
during  the  day. 

"Tug,  my  old  friend!"  Silas  said,  in  a  voice  trembling 
with  excitement  and  pleasure.  "  God  bless  me ;  how  glad 
I  am  to  see  you ! " 

Tug  sat  down  wearily  in  a  chair,  and  laid  the  gun 
down  at  his  feet.  He  was  certainly  very  tired,  and  very 
hungry,  and  very  weak,  and  Silas  thought  how  fortunate 
it  was  he  had  brought  a  lunch  with  him,  although  he  had 
only  hoped  that  Tug  would  eat  it.  This  he  placed  before 
his  friend,  who  pulled  his  chair  up  to  the  table  at  sight  of 
the  sandwiches,  and  said  in  a  hoarse  voice,  — 

"  I  've  caught  an  awful  cold  somewhere.  Do  you  starve 
a  cold,  or  stuff  it  ?  I  've  been  starving  it  for  several  days, 
and  I  think  I  '11  try  stuffing.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
you  have  brandy  in  that  bottle,  do  you?" 

It  was  brandy  fortunately,  which  Silas  had  been  saving 


274  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

for  his  friend  since  his  departure,  but  he  seemed  so  tired 
now  that  he  could  not  enjoy  it  with  his  old  relish,  for  he 
did  not  look  at  it  with  his  usual  eagerness,  and  there  was 
a  melancholy  air  about  him  which  was  very  distressing  to 
the  little  man  by  his  side.  As  Silas  watched  him,  he 
thought  that  he  discovered  that  he  had  grown  a  dozen 
years  older  within  a  month,  and  that  he  would  never 
again  be  the  contented,  easy-going  man  he  was  before. 
He  was  a  serious  man  now,  too,  a  thing  he  had  always 
despised,  and  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  he  could  ever 
recover  from  it. 

When  he  had  finished  his  meal,  he  walked  slowly  and 
painfully  over  to  the  bed,  and,  stretching  out  upon  it, 
remained  silent  so  long  that  Silas  feared  he  had  washed 
his  voice  down  his  thi'oat  with  the  brandy. 

"  How  is  Missus  Pretty  ?  "  he  inquired  at  last,  turning 
to  Silas,  who  sat  beside  him. 

"  Very  poorly,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  Silas  replied,  in  a 
husky  voice. 

This  did  not  encourage  Tug  to  talk,  for  he  became 
silent  again,  and  although  Silas  was  keen  to  hear  where 
his  friend  had  been,  he  was  silent,  too. 

"Have  you  told  her  that  we  were  to  blame?"  Tng 
asked,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Yes,  I  told  her  everything,  but  she  does  not  blame 
us,  and  asked  me  to  bring  you  up  immediately  after  your 
return." 

There  was  the  click  in  the  ragged  man's  throat  that 
usually  distinguished  him  when  he  was  about  to  laugh, 
but  surely  Tug  had  no  intention  of  laughing  now,  though 
he  wiped  his  big  eye  hurriedly,  and  in  a  manner  indi 
cating  that  he  was  vexed. 

"I  might  have  known  that  it  was  wrong  not  to  tell 
Allan  Dorris  of  this  enemy,"  Tug  said.  "I  ain  usually 


TUG'S  RETURN.  275 

wrong  in  everything,  but  I  hoped  I  was  doing  them  a 
favor  in  this  matter ;  for  who  would  n't  worry  to  know  that 
they  were  constantly  watched  by  a  man  who  seemed  to 
have  come  a  long  distance  for  the  purpose  ?  They  were 
so  happy  that  I  enjoyed  it  myself,  and  I  wanted  to  pro 
tect  them  from  The  Wolf,  and  though  The  Wolf  was 
smarter  than  I  expected,  I  meant  well ;  you  know  that." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  Davy  replied. 

"  A  man  who  has  been  bad  all  his  life  cannot  become 
good  in  an  hour,  and  while  I  meant  well,  I  did  not  know 
how  to  protect  them  from  this  danger.  We  should  have 
taken  them  into  our  confidence  when  The  Wolf  first 
appeared ;  I  can  see  that  now,  after  it  is  too  late.  It  was 
my  fault,  though ;  you  always  wanted  to.  I  '11  have  more 
confidence  in  you  in  future." 

Both  men  seemed  to  be  busy  thinking  it  all  over  for 
several  minutes,  for  not  a  word  was  exchanged  between 
them  until  Silas  inquired,  — 

"  Do  you  suppose  there  is  any  danger  of  the  shadow 
molesting  Mrs.  Dorris  ?  " 

Tug  was  lying  on  his  back,  and  putting  his  hand  under 
him  he  took  from  his  pistol-pocket  a  package  wrapped  in 
newspapers,  which  looked  like  a  sandwich.  Handing  this 
to  Davy,  he  said,  — • 

"  Look  at  it." 

Going  over  to  the  table  and  the  light,  Davy  began  the 
work  of  unwrapping.  There  was  a  package  inside  of  a 
package,  which  continued  until  a  pile  of  newspapers  lay 
on  the  table.  At  last  he  came  to  something  wrapped  in 
a  piece  of  cloth,  and  opening  this  he  found  a  human  ear, 
cut  off  close  to  the  head  !  He  recognized  it  in  a  moment, 
—  the  ear  of  the  shadow,  with  the  top  gone ! 

He  hurriedly  wrapped  the  horrible  thing  up  as  he  had 
found  it,  and  while  he  was  about  this  he  felt  sure  that 


276  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

Tug's  journey  had  not  been  in  vain ;  that  somewhere  he 
had  encountered  the  shadow  and  killed  him,  bringing 
back  the  ear  as  a  silent  and  eloquent  witness. 

When  the  package  had  been  returned  to  Tug's  pocket, 
he  turned  on  his  side,  rested  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
told  his  story. 

"  Out  into  the  river  like  a  shot ;  that 's  the  way  I  rowed 
that  misty  morning  when  I  found  that  Allan  Dorris  had 
gone  into  the  bottoms  alone.  I  had  no  idea  where  to  go 
to  find  him,  so  I  pulled  over  toward  the  hills  on  the  east 
shore,  where  there  was  a  slow  current,  and  concluded  to 
float  down  the  stream.  It  may  have  been  an  hour  later, 
while  in  the  vicinity  of  the  big  bend,  that  I  heard  a  shot 
below  me.  Rowing  toward  it  with  all  my  might,  I  soon 
came  upon  Allan  Dorris  lying  dead  in  the  bottom  of  his 
boat.  Only  stopping  to  convince  myself  that  he  was 
stone  dead,  I  pulled  out  after  his  murderer.  I  knew  who 
it  was  as  well  as  if  I  had  seen  the  shot  fired,  and  I  knew 
that  he  would  be  making  down  the  river  to  escape,  so  I 
made  clown  the  river  myself  to  prevent  it.  He  had  the 
start  of  me,  and  seemed  to  know  the  bottom  better  than 
I  did,  for  when  I  came  into  the  main  current  I  could  see 
him  hurrying  away,  a  good  half  mile  ahead  of  me.  But 
I  was  the  best  rower,  and  within  an  hour  I  was  coming 
within  shooting  distance,  when  he  suddenly  turned  under 
the  trees,  near  the  island  where  we  saw  him  the  first  time. 
I  lost  track  of  him  here  for  several  hours,  but  at  last  I 
came  upon  his  boat,  a  long  distance  up  the  creek,  and  just 
when  I  heard  a  whistle  down  at  the  station.  Had  I 
thought  of  this  before,  I  might  have  found  him  there,  and 
brought  him  back  alive,  for  I  have  since  found  out  that  he 
signalled  the  train  and  went  away  on  it ;  but  it  was  too 
late  then,  so  I  could  do  nothing  but  go  over  to  the  station 
arid  wait  for  the  next  train." 


TUG'S  EETTJRN.  277 

The  narrator's  hoarseness  became  so  pronounced  that 
Silas  brought  him  the  remaining  brandy,  which  he  tossed 
off  at  one  swallow. 

"  A  lonely  enough  place  it  was,"  Tug  continued,  "  and 
nobody  around  except  the  agent,  who  told  me  there  would 
not  be  another  train  until  a  few  hours  after  midnight,  so 
I  occupied  myself  in  studying  maps  of  the  road.  I  had 
no  money,  of  coui-se,  but  I  felt  sure  I  could  make  my  way 
to  a  certain  big  town  several  hundred  miles  away,  which 
I  had  once  heard  Dorris  mention,  and  it  had  been  in  my 
mind  ever  since  that  he  came  from  there.  Of  course  his 
enemy  lived  in  the  same  place,  and  the  certainty  that 
The  Wolf  came  to  the  Bend  on  that  road  once,  and  went 
away  by  the  same  route,  and  the  probability  that  he 
always  came  to  the  Bend  from  that  station  by  rowing  up 
the  river,  made  me  feel  certain  that  the  course  I  had 
mapped  out  was  right. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  had  trouble  in  travelling 
without  money,  for  there  are  many  people  who  cannot 
travel  comfortably  even  when  supplied  with  means  in 
abundance ;  but  in  course  of  tune  I  arrived  in  the  city  I 
once  heard  Dorris  mention,  very  tired,  dirty,  and  hun 
gry,  as  you  will  imagine,  but  not  the  least  discouraged ; 
for  the  more  I  heard  about  the  place,  —  and  I  inquired 
about  it  of  every  one  who  would  listen  to  me,  -r-  the  surer  I 
was  that  I  would  find  The  Wolf  there.  The  people  with 
whom  I  talked  all  had  the  greatest  respect  for  the  city,  as 
they  had  here  for  Dorris ;  this  was  one  thing  which  made 
me  feel  sure  he  came  from  there,  but  there  were  a  great 
many  other  evidences  which  do  not  occur  to  me  now.  I 
arrived  in  the  morning,  and  there  was  so  much  noise  in 
the  streets  that  it  gave  me  the  headache ;  and  so  many 
people  that  I  could  not  count  them,  therefore  I  cannot 
tell  you  the  population  of  the  place. 


278        THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"It  was  so  big  and  gay,  though,  that  I  am  certain  that 
the  Ben's  City  people  would  have  been  impressed  as 
much  as  I  was,  though  they  put  on  airs  over  us.  A  Ben's 
City  man  would  have  felt  as  much  awe  there  as  a 
Davy's  Bend  man  feels  in  Ben's  City,  and  it  did  me  a 
great  deal  of  good  to  find  out  that  Ben's  City  is  nothing 
but  a  dirty  little  hole  after  all. 

"  For  two  Aveeks  I  wandered  about  the  streets,  looking  for 
that  ear.  There  were  crowds  of  people  walking  and  riding 
around  who  were  like  Allan  Dorris  in  manners  and  dress, 
and  I  was  sure  that  they  all  knew  him,  and  respected  him, 
and  regretted  his  departure,  for  I  knew  by  this  time  that 
he  came  from  that  place  to  Davy's  Bend.  There  was  an 
independence  and  a  rush  about  the  town  so  unlike  Davy's 
Bend,  and  so  like  Allan  Dorris,  that  I  was  certain  of  it. 
Several  times  I  thought  of  approaching  some  of  the  well- 
dressed  people,  and  telling  them  that  I  was  looking  for 
the  man  who  had  murdered  Allan  Don-is,  feeling  sure 
that  they  would  at  once  offer  to  assist  me  in  the  search ; 
but  I  at  last  gave  it  up,  fearing  they  would  think  he  had 
taken  a  wonderful  fall  in  the  world  to  be  friends  with  a 
man  like  me. 

"  One  day,  about  three  weeks  after  my  arrival,  I  met 
The  Wolf  on  a  crowded  street.  I  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  when  he  turned  to  look  at  me,  he  trembled 
like  a  thief. 

"  '  That  matter  of  killing  up  at  Davy's  Bend, '  I  said, 
'  I  am  here  to  attend  to  it.' 

"He  recovered  his  composure  with  an  effort,  and  re 
plied,  — 

"  '  "What 's  that  to  me,  vagrant  ?  Keep  out  of  my  way, 
or  I  '11  have  you  jailed.  I  do  not  know  you.' 

"'You  are  a  liar,'  I  replied,  'and  your  manner  shows  it. 
I  am  dressed  this  way  as  a  disguise.  I  have  as  good 


TUG'S  BETURN.  279 

clothes  as  anybody  when  I  choose  to  wear  them.  I  am  a 
private  detective.' 

"I  had  heard  that  a  great  many  vagrants  claim  to  be 
private  detectives,  so  I  tried  it  on  him,  and  it  worked 
well ;  for  he  at  once  handed  me  a  card  with  an  address 
printed  on  it,  and  said,  — 

"  '  Call  at  that  number  to-night ;  I  want  to  see  you.' 

"  lie  had  probably  heard  of  private  -detectives,  too,  for 
I  knew  he  wanted  to  buy  mo  off;  so  I  consented  to  the 
arrangement,  knowing  that  lie  would  not  run  away. 

"  When  it  was  dark,  I  went  to  the  street  and  number 
printed  on  the  card,  and  The  Wolf  met  me  at  the  door  of 
a  house  almost  as  big  as  The  Locks,  but  land  seemed  to 
be  valuable  there,  for  others  were  built  up  close  to  it  on 
both  sides.  There  was  a  row  of  houses  just  alike,  as  far 
as  I  cbulct  see,  but  different  numbers  were  printed  on  all 
of  them  to  guide  strangers.  The  Wolf  led  the  way  up 
stairs,  after  carefully  locking  the  door,  and  when  we 
were  seated  in  a  room  that  looked  like  an  office,  and 
which  was  situated  in  the  back  part  of  the  house,  he 
said,  — 

'"What  do  you  want?' 

"'I  want  to  kill  you,'  I  replied. 

"  He  was  a  tall,  nervy  man,  but  I  was  not  afraid  of  him  ; 
for  I  am  thick  and  stout.  He  laughed  contemptuously, 
and  replied, — 

"  'Do  you  know  this  man's  offence?' 

"  '  ISTo,'  I  answered,  'but  I  know  yours.' 

"He  sat  near  a  desk,  and  I  felt  sure  that  under  the  lid 
was  concealed  a  pistol ;  therefore  I  found  opportunity  to 
turn  the  key  quickly,  and  put  it  in  my  pocket. 

" '  Now  you  are  in  my  power,'  I  said  to  him.  '  You 
killed  Allan  Dorris,  and  I  can  prove  it,  and  I  intend  to 
kill  you.' 


280  THE  MYSTERY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

"  A  very  cool  man  was  The  Wolf ;  and  he  watched  me 
from  under  his  heavy  eyebrows  like  a  hawk,  taking  sharp 
note  of  everything  I  did,  but  he  did  not  appear  to  be 
afraid.  I  could  n't  help  admiring  the  fellow's  nerve,  for 
he  was  the  coolest  man  I  ever  saw,  and  there  was  an  air 
of  importance  about  him  in  his  own  house  which  did  not 
appear  when  he  was  crawling  around  Davy's  Bend. 
There  was  something  about  him  that  convinced  me  he 
was  a  doctor,  like  Dorris,  though  I  heard  nothing  and 
saw  nothing  to  confirm  the  belief. 

" '  I  have  had  enough  trouble  over  this  affair  already,'  he 
said,  'and  I  am. willing  to  pay  for  your  silence.  You 
don't  know  what  you  are  about,  but  I  do,  and  I  know 
there  is  more  justice  in  my  cause  than  there  is  in  yours. 
I  have  been  actuated  by  principle,  while  you  are  merely 
a  vagrant  pursuing  a  hobby.  You  are  interfering  in  the 
private  affairs  of  respectable  people,  sir,  and  I  offer  you 
money  with  the  contempt  that  I  would  throw  a  bone  to  a 
surly  dog,  to  avoid  kicking  him  out  of  my  way.' 

" '  I  am  not  a  respectable  man  myself,'  I  answered,  '  but 
I  know  that  it  is  not  respectable  to  shoot  from  behind.  I 
give  you  final  notice  now  that  I  don't  want  your  money ; 
I  want  your  life,  and  I  intend  to  have  it.  Back  in  the 
poor  town  I  came  from  there  is  a  little  woman  whose 
face  I  could  never  look  upon  again  were  I  to  take 
your  money,  and  I  intend  to  be  her  friend  and  protector 
as  long  as  I  live.  I  believe  the  money  you  offer  me 
belongs  to  Dorris ;  for  you  look  like  a  thief  who  believes 
that  every  man  is  as  dishonest  as  yourself,  and  has  his 
price.  Even  my  rags  cry  out  against  such  a  proposition.' 

"  He  was  as  cool  as  ever,  and  looked  at  me  impudently 
until  I  had  finished,  when  he  said,  — 

" '  I  want  to  step  into  the  hall  a  moment 

"He  knew  I  was  watching  the  door  to  prevent  his 


TUG'S   RETTJEN.  281 

escape,  and  acknowledged  that  I  was  master  of  the  situa 
tion  by  asking  my  permission. 

" '  To  call  help,  probably,'  I  said. 

" '  No,  to  call  a  weak,  broken  woman  ;  I  want  you  to  see 
her.  Whatever  I  have  done,  her  condition  has  prompted 
me  to.' 

"  I  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  he  stepped  into  the 
dark  hall,  where  he  called  '  Alice ! '  twice.  I  was  so  near 
him  that  he  could  not  get  away,  and  we  stood  there  until 
Alice  appeared  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  It  was  the 
little  woman  we  had  here  one  night !  But  though  she  was 
dressed  better  than  when  we  saw  her,  she  was  paler;  and 
when  she  came  down  the  dark  hall,  carrying  a  candle 
above  her  head  to  light  the  way,  I  thought  I  had  never 
before  seen  such  a  sickly  person  out  of  a  grave. 

"When  she  came  up  to  us  t  saw  that  she  was  panting 
from  her  slight  exertion,  and  we  stepped  into  the  room 
together.  She  did  not  know  me,  and  looked  at  me  with 
quiet  dignity,  as  if  she  would  conceal  from  me  that  she 
was  weak  and  sick. 

'"Does  he  bring  news  of  him?'  she  asked,  looking  from 
me  to  The  Wolf. 

"The  woman  was  crazy;  there  was  no  doubt  of  it. 
Had  she  not  been  she  would  have  fallen  on  her  knees,  and 
said  to  me,  as  she  did  the  night  she  was  in  this  room, 
'Gentlemen,  in  the  name  of  God!'  for  I  was  determined 
to  make  way  with  a  person  who  was  probably  her  only 
protector. 

'"Does  the  gentleman  come  from  him?'  the  pale 
woman  asked  again. 

"  She  is  the  only  person  who  ever  called  me  a  gentleman, 
and  what  little  compassion  I  had  before  vanished. 

"  The  Wolf  paid  no  attention  to  her  talk,  and  I  thought 
lie  was  accustomed  to  it;  perhaps  she  was  always  asking 


282  THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

questions  to  which  no  reply  could  be  given.  She  .ras  not 
a  young  woman,  and  there  was  something  about  her  — 
probably  the  result  of  her  sickness  —  which  was  so  repug 
nant  that  I  almost  felt  faint.  If  she  had  walked  toward 
me,  I  would  have  run  out  of  the  house,  but  fortunately 
she  only  looked  at  me. 

" '  If  you  came  here  at  his  request,'  the  little  woman 
said,  as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  '  take  this  to 
him  for  me.  I  have  been  writing  it  for  two  years;  it  will 
explain  everything.' 

"  I  thought  the  man  was  pleased  because  she  had  com 
menced  the  conversation  so  readily ;  for  he  appeared  to 
be  in  good  humor,  as  though  she  were  saying  exactly  what 
he  had  desired  she  should  to  impress  me. 

" '  When  they  told  me  he  was  contented  in  his  new 
home,'  she  continued,  '  I  was  satisfied,  and  I  want  him  to 
know  it.  He  had  life,  and  vigor,  and  energy,  and  no  one 
ever  blamed  him  but  Tom  and  me.  This  letter  says  so ; 
I  want  you  to  take  it  to  him.  When  I  discovered  that  he 
disliked  me,  and  would  always  neglect  me,  it  was  a  cruel 
blow,  though  he  was  not  to  blame  for  it,  for  other  men 
have  honestly  repented  of  their  fancies.  I  could  not 
think  of  him  as  a  bad  man  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
he  was  dissatisfied  with  me ;  for  all  the  people  were  his 
friends,  and  he  must  have  deserved  their  friendship.  I 
suppose  a  man  may  form  a  dislike  for  his  wife  as  naturally 
as  he  forms  a  dislike  for  anything  else  —  I  have  reason  to 
know  that  they  can  —  and  not  commit  a  graver  offence 
than  one  who  happens  to  dislike  any  other  trifle  which  dis 
pleases  him.  I  would  have  told  him  this  myself  had  he 
not  kept  out  of  my  way  so  long ;  it  is  all  written  in  this 
letter,  and  my  name  is  signed  to  it.  I  commission  you  to 
give  it  to  him.' 

"  She  took  from  her  bosom  and  handed  me  a  crumpled 


TUG'S  RETURN.  283 

piece  of  paper,  on  wliich  nothing  was  written,  but  I  care 
fully  put  it  in  iny  pocket,  to  humor  her  strange  whim. 

•' '  I  am  satisfied  now,  since  I  have  heard  that  he  is  con 
tented,  and  if  Tom  is  willing  we  will  never  refer  to  the 
matter  again.  He  is  a  good  man ;  even  Tom  says  that 
between  his  curses,  and  why  not  let  him  alone?  Tell  him. 
that  Alice  gave  you  the  letter  with  her  own  hands,  and 
that  she  will  not  live  long  to  annoy  him.  Tell  him  that 
Alice  rejoices  to  know  that  he  is  contented  ;  for  Tom  has 
told  me  all  about  .t,  and  since  my  sickness  it  has  been  a 
pleasure  for  me  to  think  that  a  worthy  man  —  and  he  is  a 
worthy  man ;  for  no  one  can  say  aught  against,  him  except 
that  he  could  not  admire  me,  which  does  not  seem  to  be 
a  very  grave  offence,  for  no  one  else  admires  me  —  has 
found  what  his  ability  and  industry  entitles  him  to,  — 
peace.  Peace!  How  he  must  enjoy  it!  How  long  he 
has  sought  it !  I  can  understand  the  relish  with  which  he 
enjoys  it.' 

"  The  Wolf  was  not  pleased  with  this  sort  of  talk ;  it 
was  not  crazy  enough  to  suit  him,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  anger  and  indignation  in  his  ugly  face. 

o  o  o  •» 

" '  I  never  said  it  before,  Tom,'  she  continued,  evidently 
frightened  at  his  wicked  look, '  but  I  must  say  it  now,  for 
I  cannot  remember  the  hate  you  tried  to  teach  me ;  I  can 
only  remember  that  a  man  capable  of  loving  and  being 
loved  buried  himself  with  a  woman  he  could  not  tolerate, 
all  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and  looked  out  at  the  merry 
world  only  to  covet  it.  I  have  forgotten  the  selfishness 
which  occupies  every  human  heart ;  it  was  driven  out  of 
my  nature  with  hope  and  ambition,  and  I  am  only  just 
when  I  say  that  he  deserved  pity  as  well  as  I.  He  was 
capable  of  something  better  than  such  a  life;  and  was 
worthy  of  it.  I  might  have  been  worthy;  but  I  was  not 
capable,  and  was  it  right  to  sacrifice  him  because  I  crept 


284  THE  MYSTEHY   OF   THE  LOCKS. 

while  be  ran  ?  Do  we  not  praise  men  for  remedying  their 
mistakes?  You  know  we  do,  and  I  only  praise  him  for 
it ;  nothing  more.  The  truth  should  always  be  written 
on  a  tomb ;  this  house  is  like  a  tomb,  it  is  so  cold  and 
damp,  and  I  must  tell  the  truth  here.  I  am  cold ;  why 
don't  you  build  a  fire  ? ' 

"She  put  her  hand  into  the  flame  of  the  candle  she 
carried,  to  warm  it,  but  it  did  not  burn,  very  much  to  my 
surprise ;  and  she  looked  at  me  with  quiet  assurance  while 
she  warmed  her  hands  in  this  odd  manner.  As  I  watched 
her  I  noticed  that  the  wild  look  which  marked  her  face 
when  she  first  appeared  was  returning;  her  craze  came 
back  to  her,  and  she  put  it  on  with  a  shiver. 

'"Your  feet  are  resting  on  a  grave,'  she  said  to  me 
again,  after  staring  around  the  room  awhile,  and  as  coolly 
as  she  might  have  called  my  attention  to  muddy  boots. 
'Please  take  them  off.  It  may  be  his  grave.  I  have 
brought  flowers  to  decorate  it ;  an  armful.  Stand  aside, 
sir.' 

"I  did  as  she  told  me,  and,  advancing  toward  where  I 
sat,  she  pretended  to  throw  something  on  nothing  out  of 
her  empty  hands. 

" '  I  came  across  a  grave  in  the  lower  hall  this  morning, 
Tom,'  she  said  to  The  Wolf,  pausing;  and  she  said  it  with 
so  much  indifference  that  I  thought  she  must  have  meant 
a  moth.  '  Of  course  they  would  not  be  together :  I  have 
never  expected  that.  The  grave  in  the  hall  was  shorter 
than  this  one,  and  it  was  neglected.  But  this  one, —  this 
shows  care.  And  look,  Tom!  The  flowers  I  threw  upon 
it  are  gone  already  ! ' 

"There  was  surprise  and  pain  in  the  little  woman's 
voice,  and  she  pretended  to  throw  other  flowers  from  her 
withered  hands  on  the  mound  her  disordered  fancy  had 
created. 


TUG'S  EETUEN.  285 

" '  They  disappear  before  they  touch  it ! '  she  said.  '  I 
almost  expect  it  to  speak,  and  protest  against  any  atten 
tion  from  me.  And  it  is  sinking ;  trying  to  get  away 
from  me!  How  much  his  grave  .is  like  him;  it  shrinks 
away  from  me.  I  '11  gather  them  up ;  I  '11  not  leave  them 
here  ! ' 

"  Out  of  the  air  she  seemed  to  be  collecting  wreaths,  and 
crosses  and  flowers  of  every  kind,  and  putting  them  back 
into  her  arms. 

" '  I  will  put  them  on  the  neglected  mound  in  the  lower 
hall,  for  no  one  else  will  do  it.  How  odd  the  fair  flowers 
will  look  on  a  background  of  weeds ;  but  there  shall  be 
roses  and  violets  on  my  grave,  though  I  am  compelled  to 
put  them  there.  Open  the  door,  Tom;  my  strength  is 
failing.  I  must  hurry.' 

"  The  door  was  opened,  and  she  passed  out  of  it,  and 
down  the  dark  hall,  staggering  as  she  went.  When  she 
reached  the  door  through  which  she  came  at  The  Wolf's 
call,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  passage,  she  turned  around, 
held  the  candle  above  her  head  again,  and  said,  — 

" '  Be  merciful,  Tom ;  I  request  that  of  you  as  a  favor. 
You  were  never  wronged  by  him,  except  through  me,  and 
I  have  never  been  resentful  except  to  please  you.  Let 
the  gentleman  return  and  deliver  the  letter  I  gave  him.' 

"Opening  the  door  near  which  she  stood,  she  disap 
peared. 

"  So  Tom  was  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble  ?  I  resolved 
as  AVC  stepped  back  into  the  room  that  he  should  regret  it, 
and  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  does." 

Tug  turned  on  his  back  again,  and  seemed  to  be  consid 
ering  what  course  he  had  better  pursue  with  reference  to 
the  remainder  of  his  story.  At  last  he  got  up  from  the 
bed  slowly  and  painfully,  and  walked  over  to  the  cup 
board  where  his  law-book  was  kept,  which  he  took  down 


286  THE  MYSTEHY   OF  THE  LOCKS. 

and  opened  on  the  table.  After  turning  over  its  pages 
for  a  while,  pausing  occasionally  to  read  the  decisions  pre 
sented,  he  shut  up  the  book,  returned  it  to  the  shelf,  and 
went  back  to  the  bed. 

"  I  am  too  much  of  a  lawyer,"  he  said,  "  to  criminate 
myself,  pardner,  and  you  '11  have  to  excuse  me  from  going 
into  further  details.  But  I  can  give  you  a  few  conjec 
tures.  In  my  opinion  the  pale,  ugly  little  woman  without 
a  mind,  but  who  looked  respectable  enough,  was  once 
Allan  Dorris's  wife,  but  I  don't  know  it ;  I  heard  nothing 

*  *  o 

to  confirm  this  suspicion  except  what  I  have  told  you. 
The  Wolf  was  her  brother  (a  man  with  an  uglier  disposi 
tion  I  never  laid  eyes  on),  and  I  shall  always  believe  that 
Dorris  married  her  when  a  very  young  man ;  that  he 
finally  gave  her  most  of  his  property  and  struck  out, 
resolved  to  hide  from  a  woman  who  had  always  been 
a  burden  and  a  humiliation  to  him.  It  is  possible 
that  he  was  divorced  from  her  a  great  many  years  beiuro 
he  came  here,  and  that  she  lost  her  mind  in  consequence ; 
it  is  possible  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  her;  but  I 
give  you  my  guess,  with  the  understanding  that  it  is  to 
go  no  farther.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  the  truth ; 
but  this  is  the  truth :  I  know  no  more  about  his  past 
history  than  you  do  ;  but  while  in  the  city  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  I  have  just  given  you." 

There  was  another  short  silence,  and  Silas  became 
aware  of  the  fact  that  Tug  was  breathing  heavily,  and 
that,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  him,  he  was 
asleep  in  his  own  house  at  night. 


CHAPTER   XXTTT. 
THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN. 

r  MWO  years  have  passed  since  the  great  flood  in  the 
J-  river,  which  is  still  told  about  with  wonder  by  those 
who  witnessed  it,  and  Tug  Whittle  is  now  living  in  the 
detached  building  at  The  Locks,  which  was  occupied  so 
long  by  Mrs.  Wedge,  that  worthy  lady  having  long  since 
taken  a  room  in  the  main  house. 

Little  Ben,  released  from  his  hard  work  at  Quade's, 
is  growing  steadily  worse,  in  spite  of  the  kindness 
shown  him  by  Mrs.  Donis  and  Mrs.  Wedge.  A  victim 
of  too  much  work  is  little  Ben ;  but  he  is  as  mild  and 
gentle  as  ever,  and  spends  his  days,  when  he  is  able,  in 
wandering  about  the  yard,  and  keeping  out  of  the  way, 
for  he  cannot  forget  the  time  when  every  hand  was  against 
him. 

Mr.  Whittle  has  become  an  industi'ious  man  during  the 
two  years,  and  is  as  devoted  to  Mrs.  Dorris  and  her  little 
child  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  be.  The  day  after 
Tug's  return  to  the  Bend  from  his  tramp  to  the  lower 
country,  he  called  on  Mrs.  Dorris,  and  related  his  story 
as  he  related  it  to  Silas  Davy,  and  going  into  the  little 
detached  house  after  its  conclusion,  he  did  not  come  out 
again  for  two  days  and  nights ;  and  it  was  supposed  that 
he  was  making  up  for  lost  sleep.  After  his  appearance  he 
was  fed  by  Mrs.  Wedge,  and  at  once  began  to  make  him 
self  useful  around  the  place.  In  a  little  while  they  learned 
to  trust  him,  and  he  soon  took  charge  of  everything,  con- 
287 


288  THE  MYSTERZ  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

ducting  himself  so  well  that  there  was  never  any  reason 
for  regretting  the  trust  reposed. 

Allan  Dorris  had  died  possessed  of  several  farms  in  the 
adjoining  neighborhood,  and  these  Mr.  "Whittle  worked  to 
so  much  advantage,  with  the  aid  of  tenants  on  each,  that 
in  a  financial  way  Mrs.  Dorris  got  on  very  well ;  for  Mr. 
Whittle  wanted  nothing  for  himself  except  the  privilege 
of  serving  her  as  he  did. 

Very  often  he  was  absent  from  The  Locks  for  weeks  at 
a  time,  looking  after  the  farm  affairs,  and  he  seldom  visited 
his  mistress  except  to  give  accounts  of  his  stewardship, 
which  were  always  satisfactory.  He  had  been  heard  to 
say  that  it  was  his  fault  that  she  was  a  widow ;  therefore 
he  did  not  care  to  see  her  except  when  it  seemed  to  be 
necessary,  for  her  modest  grief  gave  him  such  pangs  of 
remorse  that  he  wanted  to  take  the  musket,  which  he  still 
retained  in  tunes  of  peace,  and  make  away  with  himself. 
Therefore  he  spent  much  of  his  time  in  managing  her 
affairs,  which  called  him  out  of  town  ;  and  he  became 
known  as  a  tremendous  worker,  —  to  rival  his  record  as  a 
ioafer,  Mr.  Whittle  himself  said ;  but  Silas  Davy  knew, 
and  even  the  people  admitted  it,  that  he  was  greatly 
devoted  to  his  young  mistress,  and  that  he  had  no  other 
aim  in  life  than  to  make  her  as  comfortable  as  possible  in 
her  widowed  condition. 

Occasionally  he  came  to  town,  on  an  errand,  after  night 
fall,  and  returned  to  the  country  before  day,  as  little  Ben 
had  done,  and  usually  they  only  knew  he  had  been  around 
the  house  at  all  by  something  he  had  left  for  their  surprise 
in  the  morning.  If  he  found  anything  in  the  country  he 
thought  would  please  Mrs.  Dorris  or  little  Ben,  he  went 
to  town  with  it  after  his  day's  work  on  the  farm,  and  left 
his  bed  in  the  detached  house  before  day  to  return. 

Besides  the  harm  he  had  done  Mrs.  Dorris,  the  wrong 


THE   GOING   DOWN   OF   THE   STJN.  289 

he  had  done  his  son  was  on  his  mind  a  great  deal,  and  he 
avoided  the  boy  whenever  it  was  possible.  He  was 
ashamed  to  look  into  his  face,  though  he  was  always  doing 
something  to  please  him.  His  rough  experience  on  the 
farm  had  forever  ruined  the  boy's  health,  and  his  father 
was  continually  expecting  to  be  summoned  from  the  field 
to  attend  his  funeral. 

Tug  was  still  rugged  and  rough,  and  unsociable  with 
those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  in  the  field  or  on  the 
road,  but  he  loved  those  in  The  Locks,  from  Mrs.  Dorris 
down  to  the  baby,  with  a  devotion  which  made  him  a  more 
famous  character  than  he  had  ever  been  as  a  vagrant.  He 
had  become  scrupulously  honest  and  truthful,  as  well  as 
industrious ;  and  those  who  marvelled  at  the  change  were 
told  by  the  wiser  heads  that  Tug  had  something  on  his 
mind  .which  he  was  trying  to  relieve  by  good  works. 

Silas  Davy  no  longer  had  reason  to  regret  that  he  was 
unable  to  buy  little  Ben  a  suit  of  clothes,  for  little  Ben 
was  well  clothed  now,  and  comfortably  situated,  except 
as  to  his  cough ;  but  in  other  respects  the  clerk  had  not 
changed  for  the  better. 

He  was  still  employed  at  the  hotel,  and  still  heard  the 
boarders  threaten  to  move  to  Ben's  City ;  for  Davy's  Bend 
continued  to  go  slowly  down  the  hill.  He  still  heard 
Armsby  boast  of  his  fancy  shots,  and  of  his  -triumphs  in 
the  lodge ;  and,  worst  of  all,  he  still  heard  patient  Mrs. 
Armsby  complain  of  overwork,  and  knew  that  it  was  true. 

He  occasionally  went  to  The  Locks  to  see  Mr.  Whittle, 
—  usually  on  Sunday  evening,  when  that  worthy  was 
most  likely  to  be  at  home,  —  and  as  we  come  upon  them 
now,  to  take  a  last  look  at  them,  it  is  Sunday  evening,  and 
Tug  and  Silas  are  seated  on  a  rude  bench,  in  front  of  the 
detached  house,  with  little  Ben  between  them. 

"I  have  come  to  the  conclusion,  Mr.  Davy," --Tug  is 


290       THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  LOCKS. 

wonderfully  polite  recently,  and  no  longer  refers  to  his 
companion  by  his  first  name,  —  "I  have  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  there  is  only  one  way  to  get  along ;  it  is  ex 
pressed  in  a  word  of  four  letters — work.  Busy  men  do 
not  commit  great  crimes,  and  they  know  more  peace 
than  those  who  are  idle ;  therefore  the  best  way  to  live  is 
to  behave  yourself.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  behave 
myself  enough  from  now  on  to  do  any  good,  or  not ;  but 
I  intend  to  try." 

"  I  think  you  can,  Tug,"  Davy  replied.  "  You  have 
been  very  useful  during  the  past  two  years." 

"  But  I  have  been  very  useless  during  the  past  forty  and 
odd,"  Mr.  Whittle  continued,  looking  at  little  Ben  as 
though  he  were  evidence  of  it.  "  I  have  changed  my 
mind  about  everything,  with  one  exception,  within  a  few 
years,  —  except  that  I  do  not  believe  a  certain  person  is 
good,  I  have  no  opinion  now  that  I  had  a  year  ago,  — but 
on  this  I  will  never  change.  My  acquaintance  with  Dor- 
ris  and  his  wife  has  taught  me  a  good  many  things  which 
I  did  not  know  before.  His  bravery  taught  me  that 
bravery  comes  of  a  clear  conscience,  and  his  wife's  good 
ness  and  devotion  teach  me  to  believe  that  a  dead  man  is 
not  so  bad  off,  after  all.  Did  you  know  that  she  expects 
to  meet  her  husband  again  ?  " 

Tug  waved  his  hand  above  his  head,  intended  as  an 
intimation  that  Mrs.  Don-is  expected  to  meet  her  husband 
in  heaven,  and  looked  at  Silas  very  gravely,  who  only 
nodded  his  head. 

"She  seems  to  know  it,"  Tug  continued,  "and  why 
should  I  dispute  her  ?  How  much  more  do  I  know  than 
Annie  Dorris  ?  By  what  right  do  I  say  that  she  is  wrong, 
and  that  I  am  right  ?  She  is  good  enough  to  receive  mes 
sages,  but  I  am  not ;.  and  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  I 
had  better  be  guided  by  her.  I  have  never  been  con- 


THE  GOING  DOWN   OF   THE   SUN.  291 

verted,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  but  I  have  felt  regret  for 
my  faults.  I  have  done  more  than  that.  I  have  said 
aloud,  as  I  worked  in  the  fields,  '  I  'm  sorry.'  I  have  fre 
quently  said  that,  —  may  be  only  to  myself,  but  may  be 
to  the  winds,  which  are  always  hurrying  no  one  knows 
where.  Who  knows  where  they  may  carry  the  sound 
when  a  wicked  man  says,  sincerely,  '  I  'm  sorry? ' ' 

Sure  enough,  who  knows  ?    May  it  not  be  to  heaven  ? 

"  I  have  heard  her  play  hymns  on  the  organ  which  I 
felt  must  be  songs  of  hope,  the  words  of  which  promised 
mercy,  for  they  sounded  like  it,  and  she  does  not  play 
them  for  amusement ;  I  believe  it  is  her  offering  for  the 
peace  of  Allan  Dorris,  and  a  prayer  could  not  go  farther 
into  heaven  than  her  music.  I  have  known  her  to  go  to 
the  church  with  the  little  baby,  and  I  should  think  that 
when. the  Lord  hears  the  music,  and  looks  down  and  sees 
Annie  Dorris  and  the  child,  He  would  forget  a  great  deal 
when  Dorris  comes  before  Him." 

Silas  had  heard  the  music,  too,  and  he  agreed  that  if  it 
could  have  been  set  to  words,  they  would  have  been 
"Mercy!  Mercy!" 

"I  am  too  old  a  crow  to  be  sentimental,"  Tug  said 
again,  "  but  I  have  felt  so  much  better  since  I  have  been 
working  and  behaving  myself  that  I  intend  to  keep  it  up, 
and  try  and  wipe  out  a  part  of  my  former  record.  If  I 
should  go  to  sleep  some  night,  and  not  waken  in  the  morn 
ing  as  usual  to  go  away  to  work,  very  good ;  but  if  I  should 
waken  in  a  strange  place,  I  should  like  to  meet  Allan 
Dorris,  and  hear  him  say,  '  Tug,  I  have  reason  to  know 
that  erring  men  who  have  ever  tried  to  do  right  receive  a 
great  deal  of  consideration  here;  you  have  done  much 
toward  redeeming  yourself.' " 

Silas  was  very  much  surprised  to  hear  his  companion 
talk  in  this  manner,  and  said  something  to  that  effect. 


292  THE  MYSTEKY  OP  THE  LOCKS. 

"  I  am  surprised  myself,"  Tug  answered,  "  but  the 
devotion  of  Annie  Dorris  to  the  memory  of  her  hus 
band  has  set  me  to  thinking.  The  people  believe  that 
Allan  Dorris  was  buried  in  The  Locks'  yard,  by  Thomp 
son  Benton,  but  I  know  that  his  iron  coffin  still  stands 
in  the  room  where  you  saw  it.  I  think  his  clay  feels 
grateful  for  the  favor,  for  it  has  never  been  offensive 
like  ordinary  flesh.  The  lid  has  been  shut  down  never  to 
be  opened  again,  but  when  I  last  looked  under  it,  I  saw 
little  except  what  you  might  find  in  the  road,  —  dust." 

The  chill  of  the  evening  air  reminds  them  that  it  is 
time  for  little  Ben  to  go  in,  but  the  two  men  remain  out 
side  to  look  at  the  sunset. 

"  The  people  of  this  town,"  Mr.  Whittle  continued, 
after  the  boy  had  disappeared,  "  are  greatly  amused  over 
the  statement  that  when  an  ostrich  is  pursued,  it  buries 
its  head  in  the  sand  and  imagines  that  it  is  hid.  I  tell 
you  that  we  are  a  community  of  ostriches;  I  occasionally 
put  a  head  into  the  sand  myself,  and  so  do  you  and  all 
the  rest  of  them.  When  little  Ben  is  near  me,  I  try  to 
cause  him  to  forget  the  years  I  neglected  him,  by  being 
kind,  but  he  never  looks  at  me  with  his  mild  eyes  that  I 
do  not  fear  he  is  thinking :  You  only  have  your  head  in 
the  sand,  and  there  is  so  much  of  you  in  sight  that  I 
remember  Quade.  Therefore  I  keep  out  of  his  way  when 
ever  I  can.  Do  you  think  his  cough  is  any  better  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  Tug,"  Silas  replied.  "  I  was  think 
ing  to-day  that  it  is  growing  steadily  worse." 

Tug  looked  toward  the  setting  sun  and  the  church,  and 
the  solemn  tones  of  the  organ  came  to  them ;  Annie 
Dorris  was  playing  the  hymn  the  words  of  which  seemed 
to  be  "  Mercy !  Mercy ! " 

"  Word  will  be  sent  to  you  some  day,"  Tug  said,  as  if 
the  music  had  suggested  it,  "that  little  Ben  is  — "  he 


THE  GOING  DOWN   OF  THE   SUN.  293 

paused,  and  shivered,  dreading  to  pronounce  the  word  — 
"worse.  I  wish  you  would  get  word  to  me  some  way, 
without  letting  any  one  know  it ;  I  want  to  go  away  some 
where.  Then  you  can  come  out  for  me,  and  tell  them  on 
your  return  that  I  could  not  be  found.  It  is  bad  enough 
for  me  to  look  at  him  now ;  I  could  never  forget  my  sin 
toward  him  were  I  to  see  him  dead.  Of  course  you  will 
go  with  him  to  the  cemetery,  with  Mrs.  Dorris  and  Mrs. 
Wedge  and  Betty ;  and  I  would  like  to  have  the  baby  at 
poor  Ben's  funeral,  for  he  thinks  so  much  of  it,  but  it  will 
be  better  for  me  to  stay  away,  though  I  want  them  to  think 
it  accidental.  When  I  return,  you  can  show  me  the  place, 
and  on  my  way  to  and  from  the  town  I  will  stop  there  and 
think  of  the  hymn  which  Mrs.  Dorris  plays  so  much." 

The  sun  is  going  down,  and  it  seems  to  pause  on  the 
hill  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  town.  Perhaps  it  is  tired  of 
seeing  it  from  day  to  day,  and  will  in  future  travel  a  new 
route,  where  objects  of  more  interest  may  be  seen. 
Anyway,  it  lingei-s  on  the  hill,  and  looks  at  the  ragged 
streets  and  houses  of  the  unfortunate  town  down  by  the 
river,  which  is  always  hurrying  away,  as  if  to  warn  the 
people  below  to  avoid  Davy's  Bend,  where  there  is  little 
business,  and  no  joy. 

When  its  face  is  half  obscured  by  the  hill,  the  sun 
seems  to  remember  The  Locks,  with  whose  his'tory  it  has 
been  familiar,  and  looks  that  way.  So  much  shadow  has 
gathered  around  it  already  from  the  woods  across  the 
river  that  objects  are  no  longer  to  be  distinguished: 
nothing  but  the  huge  outlines.  At  last  the  sun  disappears 
behind  the  hill,  but  a  friendly  ray  comes  back,  and  looks 
toward  The  Locks  until  even  the  church  steeple  disap 
pears  ;  and  Davy's  Bend,  and  The  Locks,  with  its  sorrow 
and  its  step  on  the  stair,  are  lost  in  the  darkness. 


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